


Our Little Gestures

by Choice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, AU, Alpha Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, And John appreciates that, Auror John Watson, Aversion to physical touch, Baby Watson, Boys In Love, Domestic Bliss, Domesticity, Fix-It, It's For a Case, John exceeds expectations, John is Besotted and Completely Oblivious to his Obviousness, John is a Good Friend, John makes Sherlock right, Life with Sherlock Holmes, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Master/Pet, Mild Dependency, Mild Kink, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty screws Sherlock over from beyond the grave, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Kink, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega John, Omega Verse, Open to Interpretation Pregnancy, Or FTM!preg if you'd rather think of it that way, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Penis Swords or Meat Daggers?, Possibly Pre-Slash, Potterlock, Praise Kink, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Psychic Abilities, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and Home Economics, Sherlock Holmes in the Kitchen, Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Psychic Detective, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock and John have a Talk, Sherlock cooks!, Sherlock is Playing Along, Sherlock is an emotional wreck, Sherlock is highly sensitive, Sherlock is the Best Man, Sherlock needs John, Sherlock worries his kinks are too much, Sherlock/Makeup, Silly shenanigans, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Some Casefic, Standalone Chapters Unless Otherwise Stated, Subspace, The Work, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unofficial Potions Master Sherlock, With John as his foil and conductor of light, You Decide, a smol bit of Mystrade for your troubles, and Hudders couldn't be happier about it, caregiving kink, human pet play, men in makeup, spiked drinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choice/pseuds/Choice
Summary: I'm quite sure we'll find one another in a place better than this, a time filled with us. And we'll send up our shooting stars and comets. And we'll make our little gestures, we'll make our little comments...— "Clever Meals" by Tegan and SaraTaking up Atlinmerrick's 30-Day Challenge. Some silly, some sweet; some slow burn, some free-fall; all unabashed Johnlock. Please read, review, kudos, post requests, and most of all--enjoy!





	1. See What You Like

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting this a bit late in the game, I know, but I just noticed this challenge last night and I felt the *urge* to write, and so I did! I think I'll follow the one-a-day format, so I'll start today, 20 September, and end 20 October, if all goes accordingly. Might try to submit more than once a day, but no promises made.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my tentative foray into the Sherlock fandom! I've been a longtime reader/fan and I have some of my own ideas for future stories, so I guess we'll see how everything goes.
> 
> Please let me know how you feel about any and all of this--characterizations, Britishisms (or lack thereof), plot (/no plot), ideas... Let me hear them! If you feel more comfortable discussing things one-on-one, feel free to request my email in a comment. Reviews and kudos are much appreciated! ♥
> 
> xx Choice (Lyss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Shopping.
> 
> Our favorite duo go out on a window-shopping excursion with mixed results.

“I fail to see the point of this excursion.”  

This was probably the tenth time Sherlock had said as much aloud in the span of their outing, brief though it was. John was sure the complaint was repeated tenfold, at the very least, within the expansive confines of the maddening genius’ mind.

“There is no decisive goal to our outing,” Sherlock continued his diatribe. “We have no shopping list—those are what those doodles that occasionally appear around the kitchen _are_ , right? You’ve succeeded in accomplishing the overworked trope about doctors and their atrocious handwriting. And there is no discernible lack of the usual inventory in the flat. I don’t even think we need _milk_ ,” Sherlock spat, as if the abundance of dairy product were a sin of the highest order.

 _God forbid there ever were a lack of human bits and pieces in the fridge, though,_ John thought to himself with some snark. He’d learnt his lesson about tampering with Sherlock’s things fairly early on; a Sherlock without his menagerie of extraneous organs or limbs was _not_ a Sherlock that John would stick with his mortal enemy, and that was putting it mildly.

“There doesn’t _need_ to be an endgame,” John replied evenly, tucking his wind- and work-chapped hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’d need to start wearing his heavier-duty coat, or maybe even layers at this rate, given how chilly it was beginning to get. “It’s called window-shopping for a reason. You don’t actually have to buy anything; you just look around, see what you like.”

He ignored the slight warmth to his cheeks, managing to not turn to give Sherlock a suggestive once-over and feeling like a besotted teenager for it.

“Then why bother even going out?” Sherlock sulked beside him, shooting a glare at a random passerby whose path happened to nearly cross with the consulting detective before he hastily hopped out of Sherlock’s way, nearly losing his briefcase in the process.

“Because there hasn’t been a case on in a bit and you were seconds away from doing something you’d regret,” John supplied helpfully, offering the harried Briefcase Man an apologetic smile and bumping his good shoulder into Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson nor the wallpaper would have appreciated your boredom.”

“This is pitiful,” the taller of the two hissed.

“Well run along then,” John retorted. He was beginning to get tired of Sherlock’s antics, no matter how much affection he harbored for his ridiculously brilliant friend. “If you have better things to do, then by all means, go ahead and do them. I’m not stopping you.” He sauntered ahead to make his point, leaving Sherlock to trail him or escape back to 221B. John didn’t really care either way.

He stopped a little stationery shop with a miniature ceramic rendition of London at Christmastime displayed in their shop window, complete with artificial snow and little faerie lights of all colors strung up and woven throughout the scene. The tiny version of the Eye was motorized, as were some of the villagers skating on ‘ice’ in the foreground.

John sensed his shadow long before he made his presence known. “My mum used to have something a bit like this,” he murmured quietly, staring at the cheery-looking homes and buildings. “She nearly flipped her lid when one of the little town-homes fell to pieces, thanks to Harry and I.”

“Father has a penchant for collectible model trains,” Sherlock offered after a moment. “Mummy nearly went spare the one year, after she almost broke her skull tripping over one of his more elaborate sets while carrying the Christmas goose to the dining room. His trains have since been delegated to the sitting room.”

John snickered. “I can’t blame your mother for getting fed up with something like that. I can relate—if you’re anything like your father—with how much crap you leave lying about the flat. It’s practically a fire hazard.”

“It’s all organized,” Sherlock argued breezily, gently shouldering John to the side to continue walking down the sidewalk. As evening approached and the skies above began to darken, the village enfolding them slowly began lighting up, holiday lights and decorations casting a warm glow all around the pair. It was still pretty busy, given that it was just after the typical workday ended and it was the week leading up to Christmas.

They made a brief pit stop at the storefront of a candy shop to claim two Styrofoam cups of complimentary hot cider before continuing their aimless trekking. Thankfully, the detective seemed to momentarily forget his hang-up on the excursion, amusing himself with rattling off things about some of the passerby. One deduction had John nearly snorting cider all over himself, laughingly retorting, “You’re _lying_!” to the rejoinder of Sherlock’s “I am _not,_ just _look_ at the state of her pencil skirt!”

When it came to Sherlock Holmes, the peace was unfortunately short-lived. It was a fact about his eccentric flatmate that John had accepted long ago, to the point where it was almost endearing… almost.

“John, when can this senseless outing come to an end?” he complained, chucking his empty cup at a nearby bin.

“Just a few shops more,” he promised, since Sherlock had actually managed to behave for a good portion of their outing. (Sometimes John felt like he was dealing with a temperamental toddler, with how much of a fuss Sherlock could make.)

They stopped at a few more storefronts before calling it quits, John pausing to admire the goods on display for the most part: fancy gourmet kitchen gadgets (“That might be a suitable instrument to extract tendons more efficiently”), leather wares (“The tanner’s having an ill-advised liaison with his hide supplier, just look at the poorly concealed warble holes on that belt”), and weaponry (“That pocket knife is good for little more than peeling apples. That dagger, on the other hand…”). He tried not to linger too long on the reflection of his companion in the windows, tried to make his wholly inappropriate admiration of the stunning figure Sherlock cut, outfitted in his usual Belstaff and straining button-down, less than completely obvious.

“You’ve been staring that machete down for a solid thirty seconds now,” Sherlock murmured into his ear, nearly making John jump in surprise at his close proximity. He swallowed, chancing a look over at the other man.

“Just appreciating the workmanship is all,” he replied, his voice a touch more wobbly than normal.

They held a stare-off for what felt like ages. John prayed he didn’t give himself away, but he knew his expression had to register as Mild Aroused Embarrassment, or something, to the detective who could always read everyone like a book. John finally caved under the tension. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just looking…” Sherlock replied casually, staring John down a moment longer (was it just wishful thinking, or were those heterochromatic eyes giving him a once-over?) before pivoting away, slipping his gloved hands into his pockets in a mirror of John’s stance. “Seeing what I like.”

John could only gape at the tail-end of the world's only consulting detective, too taken for a loop to even sufficiently enjoy the delicious pertness of certain...  _assets._

It took him a moment before his brain was back online, and by then, Sherlock had vanished from sight. John shook his head in amused consternation, opting to leave the thinking and crises for later as he made his way back home.


	2. The Magic of Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Gardening.
> 
> Sentient rosemary shrubs and gardening mishaps: just another Sunday morning in 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of subtle Potterlock for the occasion! I couldn't resist. Apologies for this being late; I had spotty internet connection for most of yesterday, and I went on an impromptu trip to IKEA in the evening to enjoy the gloriousness that is lingonberry sauce and Swedish meatballs. 
> 
> I'll be posting another chapter later on today, as today is technically Day 3 of my challenge schedule! So, yeah... be on the lookout for that. Apologies for any mistakes/inaccuracies/lack of Britishisms; this is unbeataed. Feel free to let me know of any errors in the comments; I'll correct them promptly. ;D Enjoy!

John was just finishing up his first cuppa in the comforting embrace of his armchair, delving into the international news now that he’d read up on all of the local happenings, checking and disregarding any potential cases when a resounding explosion disturbed an otherwise peaceful, quiet Saturday morning.

Lightning-quick, he reached out with one stocking-clad foot to steady a shivering precariously stacked pile of fine china (the remnants of last night’s takeaway—Thai—forgotten by the hearth in favor of cuddling and petting under the warm covers of their shared bed), sighing all the while. The paper was neatly folded and tucked away into the recesses of his chair cushion for later; he shoved his feet into his house shoes with little pomp and circumstance and marched over to the door leading to the balcony, retying the sash of his robe as he went.

The perpetrator of the early-morning commotion was none other than Sherlock Holmes. _I can barely reign myself in from the shock,_ John thought to himself with no small amount of sarcasm. He folded his arms across his chest and watched as his maddening detective popped up from a pile of gardening detritus, looking more like a gangly, sheepish raccoon with all the black soot covering his face.

“Again?” John asked dryly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though John could discern a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks, beneath all of that dirt and cool façade. “It was a controlled experiment, I assure you.”

“You tried to spell the rosemary into growing.” John replied; it was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Why the blasted thing insists on being so stubborn…” Sherlock mumbled and ranted to himself as he impatiently waved his wand—a beautifully elegant twelve-and-a-half inches of mahogany, Thunderbird tail feather core—and set their household garden to rights. Bright orange shards of terra cotta danced and careened about like excitable songbirds, mending themselves with audible _clinks_ ; piles of optimally-fertilised soil rose in swelling waves to refill the newly-reconstructed pots; salvageable plants were carefully tucked back where they belonged while the mangled remains of others (John frowned at the pitiful sight of one of his prized heirloom tomato plants, irrevocably smashed) were summarily incinerated and or added to their compost bin.

All of this happened in mere moments, and before long, the balcony garden looked more or less like it had before Sherlock’s impatience had led to its ruin. The aforementioned rosemary plant had been irksomely untouched by the entire ordeal, occupying its position in the left-hand corner with an inordinate amount of smugness for an evergreen of its miniscule stature. Sherlock shot the thing a scathing glare for good measure, clapping his hands together to dispel the dirt there.

John reached up to wrest a stray sprig of the fragrant stuff from Sherlock’s errant manes of hair, taking an unnecessarily long moment to card his fingers through the silky strands. Tickling under the unofficial Potions-Master’s nose with the bit of rosemary, he chided, “I always tell you that some things can’t be rushed, don’t I?” His admonition was lessened quite a bit by the undercurrent of laughter in his warm voice.

“I needed some rosemary for one of my experiments,” Sherlock sniffed, leaning into John’s hand like an overgrown cat desperate for pets. “I cannot be blamed for the potential sentience of a mere _shrub_ ,” he directed this barbed remark over at the pot of rosemary; John fancied the thing ruffled in indignant annoyance, though that could have just been a passing breeze.

“Why don’t you come in and I’ll make you up some tea,” John offered.

“The Muggle way?”

“The Muggle way,” John retorted, as if anything else were ludicrous. Which it was. After all… “Some things are best done without magic.” John scowled at the unexpected echo, shoving past Sherlock in jesting annoyance so that he could get the kettle going.

“Smug git,” he muttered with a small smile.

“Only for you, my pigheaded Auror,” Sherlock rejoined with the sweetest of grins.

A kiss, some loose-leaf tea, and a shared shower under the premise of cleaning that devolved into an obscene misuse of lathery body wash—just another Sunday morning in 221B.


	3. His Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Gifts.
> 
> The gift of one's Omega isn't to be so easily shirked, a lesson that Sherlock's learned the hard way over the years. Omegaverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write some Omegaverse!! It's little more than an overview of their relationship, but I couldn't resist. I hope you enjoy it; I might return to this 'verse later on in the challenge.

No matter how many days he could hope to spend at John’s side, Sherlock didn’t think he would ever tire of his mate-to-be, ever stop being amazed at what his Omega was capable of, ever cease viewing each and every moment spent in John’s presence as the most precious gift.

Popular opinion dictated John’s mannerisms by and large inappropriate for an Omega of his station, whereas Sherlock couldn’t care _less_ about how insubordinate, fiery, and ‘undomesticated’ his John was. He’d been exposed to similar sentiments when he first presented, viewed as a peculiarly odd Alpha specimen for his lack of a raging (and, quite frankly, unattractively brutish) sex drive, territorial disposition, and possessiveness, not to mention his willowy frame.

He’d given not a whit of concern for how others viewed him; there were a select few whose opinions genuinely mattered to Sherlock, and even then, he could handle a bit of controversy and disapproval. He lived to defy expectations, after all.

It hadn’t been until one former Army Doctor John Watson had come into his life that Sherlock felt the unnerving stirrings of his… baser nature. The desire to posture and stake a claim on the unabashedly Omega man was so strong that Sherlock had to make his escape in the middle of their very first case together, flying down the stairs under the guise of a brilliant deduction regarding the woman’s case (he’d discerned that aspect _minutes_ beforehand) and stranding the poor man with Gavin and his blundering buffoons from Scotland Yard before he did something as ludicrous as _posturing_.

He’d scoffed at the mere thought of doing something so animalistic, an inherent behavior akin to a bloody peacock displaying his plumage to a potential mate. He was above all that, for god’s sake, so why had it all washed over him right then?!

That initial case was a whirlwind of exhilaration and transformation, for both John and himself. Sherlock felt his newly-awakened inner Alpha preen in delight at the success of having weaned John off of his cane for good, while John himself was visibly more aware and engaged with life, no longer trudging about with his head down as he’d done since being invalidated.

The knowledge that John had deemed _him_ , Sherlock, worthy enough of his protection to shoot down that godawful cabbie, a part of Sherlock (however subconscious) determined that Doctor John Watson would be his Omega, at all costs.

He absolutely _loathed_ all of John’s partners, did everything within his power to ensure these relationships were living on borrowed time. Likewise, any and all other Omegas meant nothing to him, didn’t even register on his radar. Deathly afraid of rejection and losing the relationship they did have, Sherlock refrained from acting upon his baser instincts and his less-than-platonic feelings, instead accepting what they had and relishing in their unique brand of domesticity in 221B.

It was awkward and overwhelmingly discomfiting whenever John was in season, but Sherlock prided himself in his steely resolve and calmly saw off and greeted John whenever the man went to or came back from the Omega Sanctuary of London for his heats, both resolutely stating nothing about what John would be up to for those long five to seven days every few months.

Moriarty nearly destroyed them, but Magnussen and Mary had served to push them closer together, in the end. While the bitterness that came with the knowledge of who John shared his bed with every night stung, slightly alleviated only by the fact that John seemed to derive just as much ire from Sherlock’s supposed relationship with Janine, Sherlock was determined to be John’s Alpha, however unofficially: he silently swore to protect John and those John cared for.

Only things changed when Mary sent that bullet clear through him, when Sherlock deduced that there was, in fact, no Watson child. Suddenly, John was threatened by the existence of the very woman Sherlock had allowed to encroach upon his rightful place in his (unfortunately necessary) absence.

John’s crumpled expression in Leinster had all but sealed the deal for Sherlock. The moment he was able, he turned to his brother with little reluctance and complete ruthlessness to put an end to the sham that was “Mary Watson nee Morstan”. With this new focus, eliminating Magnussen no longer mattered as much to Sherlock; it was now about taking care of “Mary” and all that she represented in their lives.

All the while, even as John tended to his aggravated bullet wound and residual complications from his drug use, Sherlock was tending to his Omega, seeing to it that John would be safe. Whether ‘safe’ entailed Something More between them was up for debate, ultimately John’s decision.

Sherlock needn’t have worried, however, as John, ever the surprising man that Sherlock had fallen in love with the moment he’d said “Afghanistan or Iraq?”, took matters into his own hands and, with little fanfare, snogged Sherlock senseless between dinner and changing his bandages.

“I’ve waited long enough for you, Sherlock Holmes,” John had muttered against his lips, even as his eyes screamed uncertainty and fear. Sherlock could practically hear the resounding echo of his voice, what felt like a lifetime ago in Angelo’s: _married to my Work._

“And I you,” Sherlock replied softly, the aching of his physical wounds little more than annoyances next to the smarting sting of years’ worth of rejections and denials.

The Irene Adlers and Janine Hawkinses of the world paled in comparison to the illustrious and unexpected John Watson, the Omega whom he would soon claim as his own come this evening.

“Feeling alright?” John asked him casually as he sidled up beside the detective, though John had to know that even without the increased sensitivity that came with bonding, Sherlock could tell his nonchalance was a shabby front for the nerves and fear the Omega felt.

“Never better.” Sherlock found it was the truth. It felt like the events of the past few years had all been a dramatic, overwrought lead-up to this pivotal day, and he was more than ready to face their bonding head-on, to begin the next chapter of their life together and enjoy all that entailed. He smiled softly as he grabbed at one of John’s clenched hands, insinuating his spindly fingers between the other man’s. “Yourself?”

John’s jaw jumped with visible tension; the flush staining his cheeks and the slight dew of perspiration on his nape, not to mention the intoxicating waves of pheromones that rolled from the Omega’s tempting form, were flashing neon lights broadcasting the imminence of John’s heat.

Despite the acute discomfort he had to be experiencing in his pre-estrus state, John found it in himself to crack a grin. “Never better,” he echoed softly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “I’ve been waiting for this since I first laid eyes on you, and I’ll be damned if I wait much longer.”

Sherlock shivered in anticipation, jumping up at Lestrade’s cue from down the hall, where they’d be signing off the official bonding papers before ‘doing the deed’, so to speak.

“You won’t be waiting long, now,” he murmured, shooting a warm, anticipatory glance over at John before tugging them both to the legalities that awaited them.

And later, as he made John his and vice versa (in actions as well as words), Sherlock vowed to never take for granted the gift that was his Omega and his love.


	4. The Extraordinarily Ordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Kisses.
> 
> The one where Sherlock is jealous of... a baby(?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so quick confessional: I do not kid you when I say that this chapter is the culmination of a plot bunny that hasn't left me alone for MONTHS. I had high-reaching, grandiose ideas to fit it into a more substantial story, one with chapters and cases and *gasp* A PLOT! But alas, I seem to have a very strong aversion to writing anything resembling that; I just don't seem to have the staying power for it.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy the wompy, schmoopy, domestic, and definitely-not-unrequited Johnlock for today's fill, inspired by [this YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbVgDR48TGg). Also--happy autumn to those in the Northern Hemisphere!! The excitement is REAL!
> 
> xxChoice

It was a Thursday afternoon, far from noteworthy by anyone’s standards. John had almost been called into the clinic to cover a midmorning shift, only to get the call from Sarah that he wouldn’t be needed and to enjoy his weekend. (Not that John was complaining.) Sherlock didn’t have a case on at the moment, so the detective was very vocally picking through one of his latest experiments—something involving the decomposition rates of fingernails painted with different brands and colours of nail varnish, John thought.

Amongst the usual detritus of another quiet day at 221B was little Emmeline Watson, the newest addition to the flat. Cute as a button and just as precarious (and, somehow, loveable) as Sherlock when in one of her strops, Emmie had weaseled her way into the unique domesticity that John fancied he and Sherlock had always had, here in their quirky little London flat.

It was by no means the same as Before—before Moriarty, before the Fall, before Mary and Magnussen and all the other whirlwind trials and tribulations that fought tooth and nail to rend him and Sherlock apart—but John would be damned if anyone dared to throw a wrench into the works again. He’d take the awkward, stilted pauses in their previously flowing conversations; he’d accept the fact that Sherlock had developed a godawful aversion (a borderline phobia, really) to the sound of leaky pipes; he’d gladly shoulder the burden of dusting, polishing, and hoovering around the flat.

He would accept all of these tedious facets and quirks of their life and more, every single time. It was all worth it, so long as it meant being in the company of the breathtakingly, astoundingly phenomenal man who’d given him a renewed sense of purpose in his previously monochromatic life with an impromptu deductive dressing-down and a jaunty wink of his captivatingly verdigris eyes.

God, he could write sonnets on those eyes alone, and just barely refrained from doing so. The threat of being found out was especially compelling in that regard. (He couldn’t resist scrawling out little Post-Its full of descriptors, though. He figured there couldn’t be any harm in it. The man was a genius, not a mind-reader… right?)

This vehement dedication to the protection of his life with one William Sherlock Scott Holmes was a new, fragile thing. It had only been a little over four months since John had planted himself on the doorstep of 221B, military stance in check and somehow complimented by the light yellow gingham-print baby carrier balanced against one hip.

There were a mere twelve weeks (give or take) separating Now and Then, the latter involving an emergency delivery hastily performed on his struggling, laboring wife, minutes after having incapacitated her before she could take a stab at her own stomach.

The image of Mary with a broken brown beer bottle poised against her navel, swollen with the precious promise of life, would haunt John for the rest of his days. It existed amongst the debris and recollections of a life lived in danger, a sensory album tucked in the darkest recesses of his mind: the sweltering Afghani sun beating down upon the viewer, the choking burn of chlorine caught in his diaphragm, the resounding _crack_ of bones hitting pavement at a speed calculable by the strength of his aching heart, the stomach-curling warmth of familiar blood pooling between his fingers juxtaposed by the bite of standard Berber office carpeting digging into his kneecaps, the disappointing taste of regret (watered down, piss-poor excuse for tea) coupled with the stark imagery of a plane flying away.

But John regretted nothing about his decisions that fateful day his daughter was born, recalling the piercing, gurgled cry that struck out at his very heartstrings as Emmeline was expelled from Mary’s body, the place that had once been a sanctuary now transformed into a veritable threat. The snip of the umbilical cord was a physical manifestation of John’s severed ties with the facsimile of living that he’d been willingly cocooned in since settling with (for) Mary.

The only thing he regretted was the way Sherlock walked on eggshells around his daughter. And who could blame the detective, truly? Emmie was the culmination of a Life Without Sherlock, a reminder of the suffering that Sherlock had gone through in the name of friendship, of (vexingly) platonic love for John.

Emmie was proof that John had, at one point in time, given up on Sherlock, had wavered in his steadfast belief in the real man beneath the deerstalker, the Belstaff, and all the layers of protection and affect worn as protection against an ever-fluctuating, ever-cruel, ever-misunderstanding public.

It smarted worse than a bullet to the shoulder, to have your best friend and object of your affections shy away from your own flesh and blood, but John accepted this as karmic justice. He was beyond fortunate to have another chance to be with Sherlock, in the ambiguously platonic way they’d previously been here in 221B.

John did everything within his power to ensure that he and Emmie would never be a burden upon Sherlock’s time and space. He never pressured Sherlock into holding Emmie or looking after her; it wasn’t his responsibility, after all. John made sure Sherlock ate and rested at fairly regular intervals, did his best to be the sounding board Sherlock needed during cases, and made sure the flat was tidy enough for an infant while still maintaining a degree of the chaos that comforted a consulting detective.

It was hard, juggling all of that with the occasional shift at the clinic and the demands of being a single father, but John was a weathered soldier; he took the strain in stride, uncomplaining. He didn’t mind the fact that his schedule didn’t allow for much of a social life—more likely the work of his embarrassing flame for his flatmate, but why bother with semantics?

Suffice to say, John was content with where he was at right now, and he would take whatever this new chapter offered so long as it was spent with his daughter and at Sherlock’s side.

So yes, while this Thursday afternoon might come across as boring for anyone else in their right ( _tediously average_ , the Sherlock in his conscious scoffed) minds, John relished it.

Since there were no immediate demands upon his time besides making sure Sherlock didn’t somehow burn the flat down or harm himself with his experimenting and keeping Emmie entertained, John decided he’d go on a brisk run in Regents Park today. It was true that he’d gained a few since his recent stint in married life and John missed the usual compact rightness of his form back when he was chasing after Sherlock, so he’d taken it upon himself to start up a new health regimen, getting back into a shape that didn’t involve what looked like a tyre around his hips. He weathered the taunts from his flatmate with the patience of a saint, even while he inwardly reveled in the attention, however seemingly derisive.

John propped Emmie on his neatly-made bed as he geared up, opting to remain shirtless until after his warmups. Slinging his white vest over one shoulder and his babbling baby girl over the other, John sailed downstairs to where his trainers were tucked away in the sitting room, slipping them on before getting to work.

He spent some time stretching, holding and chatting to Emmie all the while. He quietly informed her what muscle groups he was moving and why, bouncing her up into the air a few times to keep her from fussing.

John walked through his warmup with precision, easily keeping Emmie entertained all the while. Soon, he just had some pushups left to do before he could strap his daughter into her pram and go on his run. He set a wriggling Emmie down on her back as he got into position, his hands bracketing her tiny body to keep her from squirming away. She looked up at him with sparkling blue eyes, babbling excitedly as she tried to reach up at him with her little, grabby hands.

He grinned back at her, smacking kisses on her nose, her forehead, her plump little cheeks with each press down. Emmie screeched in sheer joy, flailing around in abandon, like a being possessed.

John happened to glance over to the kitchen after a rep, and caught Sherlock’s eye. The man looked like someone had sucker-punched him in the solar plexus, a pinched expression warping his handsome features. The moment he noticed that he was being watched, the look melted off of Sherlock’s face in favor of affected disinterest.

Frozen in his raised position, John watched as Sherlock stood and swept his Belstaff up, setting it around his shoulders like a bird might right their ruffled feathers. John sat up when he realized that Sherlock meant to leave.

“Sorry for the noise,” he murmured remorsefully, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to go. I was just about to leave; we’ll be out of your hair.”

Sherlock brushed off John’s apologies with an imperious gesture of his hand. He plucked up his blue scarf, tying it around his neck as he replied, “I’m off to Molly’s to pick up some new specimens she’s secured from me. Might spend some time tinkering about in her lab,” he mused.

“Pilfering equipment, you mean,” John grinned. Sherlock smirked in return, though there was something decidedly… off with his usual snark. He felt his lips curl into a concerned frown. “Sherlock, look—I know you said this was alright, but if you’re having second thoughts, I completely understand…”

With little context provided, Sherlock had no problems with figuring out what John was rambling about. He scoffed. “I don’t mind having the two of you here, _obviously_ ,” he emphasized, rolling his eyes. “But don’t use me as an excuse if you’d rather you lived somewhere else. I will not stop you if that is what you truly desire, but need I remind you that your army pension and the meagre wages you earn at the clinic would barely cover a month’s rent in London, let alone—“

“Wait, hold the phone.” John held his hand out as he stared at Sherlock in shock. “Who said anything about me wanting to move out?”

“You did!” Sherlock retorted, as if John were particularly dense.

“I don’t want to leave you!” His voice seemed to echo in the uncomfortable silence that had settled around them. Even Emmie was quiet for once, nibbling on a balled-up fist as she stared uncertainly between her father and his friend. It felt too close to the truth, his statement, and he hurried to clarify, to remove the oppressive blanket of things unsaid from the moment. “I just—I know it’s been difficult for you, having to share the flat again, not just with me but with a little baby who could probably put the alley-cats to shame with her caterwauling when she’s hungry.”

“The influence of your genes, no doubt,” Sherlock sniffed with an attempt at a smile. John returned the precarious amusement.

“But as much as I’d love to be here, to be _home_ , I would never want to be a burden. You’ve done… so much… for me as it is, and I can never begin to repay you for everything,” John struggled, clenching his arms around Emmie to stave off the waves of emotion bombarding him.

Sherlock looked vaguely alarmed. “No one said anything about repaying, John. It’s not—I don’t expect anything of the sort,” he quickly reassured.

“And that’s exactly why I think I have to find us—Emmie and I—somewhere new,” John insisted. “Because you’ve so selflessly sacrificed yourself, time and again, just to make sure I’m safe. It’s not fair to you to make you put up with the usual interruptions that comes with a baby. You’ve done so much for me; the least I can do is give you your space back and not be a bother.”

Sherlock stared at him, hard, for a good minute. The only sounds between them were their heavy, restrained breathing. “I will say this once, and once only.” His voice was a low, dangerous intonation. “You, John Watson, have never been and will never be a _bother_. Not to me. And I would continue to do everything within my capabilities to ensure not just your safety, as you’ve noted, but your happiness as well. Even—no, _especially_ if it means having the both of you here with me.”

John felt his heart clench painfully at the uncharacteristic display of emotion from Sherlock, taking in the genuine love that shone in the man’s eyes— _those eyes_ —and feeling just how much their friendship meant to the brilliant man before him.

“But I see how you practically avoid her,” he croaked futilely, even as he began to wonder whether he’d completely misread things.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped down to the little girl in John’s arms, and right there—John could see the softening of that intense look, the quiet warmth that suffused the man’s expression without restraint.

“John, this pains me to admit it, but I don’t know what you’ve been thinking about how I feel about your daughter.” Sherlock said this with quiet strength, as if he were steeling himself for some grand declaration. John felt his breath hitch in response. “But I can only say that I could never fail to cherish and love this little girl who shares your genetic material. You’re—it’s… precious,” the man finished clumsily, with the utmost conviction. His gaze skirted John’s eyes now.

“Sherlock…” John breathed. And suddenly everything, every little soft moment clicked into place, into a bigger picture, and it all made sense.

 _He would never do anything in halves, after all, would he?_ He thought to himself with slightly hysterical joy. A smile broke out on his face, and he knew he must look mad in that moment: grinning like a loon, slightly disheveled and sweaty, shirtless and clinging to a baby, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Feeling a sudden, unexpected burst of confidence, John chuckled. “There’s no need to be jealous of Emmie, you know,” he said with casualness he didn’t fully feel.

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion. “ _What_ are you on about?” he barked.

He sidled into Sherlock’s personal space, feeling a thrill of danger and excitement light his nerves up like a Christmas tree. “I’d have given you kisses as well, if you’d only asked nicely.”

He barely spared a moment to revel in Sherlock’s gobsmacked expression before he pressed a gentle, tentative kiss against those unfairly gorgeous cupid’s-bow lips. It was simple; it was miraculously earth-shattering. The unexpected warmth of the skin beneath his mouth was addictive, but John forced himself to back off and give Sherlock a moment to come to terms with _this_ , this wonderful thing that had flourished between them, had survived countless sufferings, had blossomed into something magnificent.

Sherlock seemed rooted in place, staring vacantly at John until Emmie unleashed a piercing squeal, jolting both men out of the gravity of the moment.

John snorted and rolled his eyes down at his daughter, taking the opportunity to step back and give Sherlock some space. “Can’t handle a moment where the attention’s not on you, eh?” he accused his daughter, bouncing her in his arms. “Seems like more of a Holmesian trait than anything else,” he teased, risking a glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock, who seemed to come to his senses as he quickly stepped back up into John’s face. “If you call that a kiss…” he threatened playfully, his lips twitching as he came close enough to share breaths with John.

And who was he to deny his maddening detective? Without complaint, John tilted his head and leaned up to give Sherlock the kiss he was asking for. The surreal moment was only enhanced when John felt Sherlock’s tentative fingers slot together over where John’s rested against the delicate curve of his daughter’s skull.

And suddenly, this Thursday didn’t seem so ordinary after all.


	5. Magnum Opus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Work.
> 
>  **magnum opus** (maɡnəm ˈōpəs), _n._ a great work; the greatest achievement of an artist or writer.
> 
> John's perception of Sherlock's priorities is severely outdated, in the aforementioned detective's humble opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I am so very pleased with the warm reception my short pieces have gotten so far! I can't even begin to explain to you the joy I experience whenever I get an email notification saying I've gotten a new kudos or comment. All I can say is thank you so much for your patronage, I hope I don't disappoint, and keep it coming! ;)
> 
> While The Work was obviously at the fore of my mind with this prompt, I wanted to take this in a different direction. I hope you like where it went! Feel free to shoot me some ideas/suggestions for future posts; I'll see what I can do! Please be sure to consult the End Notes of this chapter for more information/sources/mindless nattering.
> 
>  **ALSO:** Motivation for today's piece brought to you courtesy of: [the space between our chairs](http://8tracks.com/eely/the-space-between-our-chairs) by Eely. ♥

Before the whirlwind that was Life with John Watson, Captain-Doctor-Blogger Extraordinaire, Sherlock would decry sentiment without hesitation, as something trivial and unnecessary to his mind and transport’s functionality. As he had told John all those years ago, he was committed to The Work and The Work alone.

The softer emotions of caring were disadvantageous at the very least, cumbersome and lethally dangerous at worst. He bore witness to this fact, seeing to the apprehension of those who committed crimes of passion—vengeful exes, obsessed stalkers, jealousy-addled friends, siblings, coworkers, the list goes on—and he saw firsthand just how much _love_ and compassion had saved those unfortunate victims. Call him cynical, jaded, pessimistic: the evidence stacked against sentiment was overwhelming.

But then… then John Watson happened to enter stage left.

Sherlock would never stoop so low as to outright lie and say that John didn’t experience his moments of banal idiocy like the rest of mankind, but he was brilliant in other ways that complemented Sherlock’s sound logic and power of deduction. And what was more, as time and their relationship progressed… Sherlock found himself become more and more subjectively interested, even enamored with the humanity of John Watson.

In the weeks leading up to his fated Fall, Sherlock had never found himself waxing poetic about the color of John’s eyes and the timbre of his voice, or the way his smile could light up a whole room. He never fell into the Shakespearean folly of writing sonnets and ballads and other frivolous things regarding his affections for John Watson, nor did he permanently etch his fondness onto a blank canvas, casting John’s profile in the most flattering of lights. He did, however, swear to himself that no matter the cost, he would see to it that Moriarty would never touch John again, so long as Sherlock breathed.

And that promise had become all too real on the roof of St. Bart’s, but even now, Sherlock never had a moment’s regret for what he’d sacrificed in order to protect the first person he called ‘friend’, the first person whose slow mind was somehow _endearingly_ irritating, the first person he felt safe letting some of his walls down around.

As he implored John to bear witness to his staged suicide, as he found his throat clogged and his eyes running with genuine emotion, Sherlock experienced a sort of epiphany. It wasn’t dramatic and earth-shattering in its appearance; it was more like the final piece of a puzzle quietly clicking into place, or a microscope slide slowly coming into focus.

  _I am in love with you, John Watson_ , he thought to himself with the utmost conviction, even as his lips formed a bleak farewell.

He treated this new consciousness not as a fragile and brittle thing, but as the battering-ram force behind the weapons of his mind and body as he traversed time and space on the hunt for all who dared threaten those who meant something to him. He used his love as the solace during his darkest hours, the calm before the raging storm of infiltration and torture that he repeatedly subjected himself to in order to put an end to the reign of Moriarty.

And—okay, there had been the occasional stolen moment when he’d revel in the rush of endorphins and testosterone at the merest thought of John’s compact, utilitarian form, or how his skin might feel pressed beneath his palms and his lips, or the way his doctor might taste after his morning ablutions and cuppa, but they were few and far in between.

It was no longer about The Work; it was about protecting the ones he loved.

But when he returned to the unexpected sight of John promising himself to another, obviously inferior human being who wasn't Sherlock himself, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed at the most basic of levels. Surely if John truly cared for Sherlock, even as a best friend and nothing more, he would never have moved onto sharing his life with another?

The reality of Mary Morstan stung worse than the craters of stubbed-out cigarettes and the wickedly-tilled rows of whiplashes gracing his corporeal form. The truth of her intimate bond with the very man Sherlock had vowed his last breath to defend resounded in its injustice because there was no one who could ever claim to love John Hamish Watson more than Sherlock himself.

But Mary had been there for John when Sherlock could not, and so he reluctantly found himself taking a step back and letting it be, committing to the old adage of _if you love someone, let them go,_ because wasn’t that what he’d done for John up on that rooftop, in that prison cell, in that brothel?

Wasn’t that what he’d forced John’s hand into doing when he jumped? Sherlock had made his decisions; now, he had to live with the consequences. If that meant quietly backing down and playing a supporting role in John's life, well, so be it.

Even as things gradually regained equilibrium between John and himself, returning to their Work even as John returned to his flat with Mary at the end of every evening, Sherlock didn’t miss the distrustful glances John sent his way. He never failed to notice the way John’s eyes seemed to beseech him: _Didn’t you miss me? Don’t you need me? Don’t you_ care, _you heartless machine?_

Sherlock felt each of these silent hurts and accusations like smarting wounds, as if he’d never truly left the confines of his self-appointed mission. But to interfere with John’s life when he was so clearly no longer desired in the same capacity as before was unfair, Sherlock told himself. John had the right to make his own decisions; it wouldn’t do for Sherlock to force his hand anymore.

As luck would have it, Sherlock had no need to worry over the obstacle of Mary Morstan. Weeks before the wedding ceremony had found Sherlock and John standing off against a would-be assassin during an investigation for a case that had led them to the home of a media magnate. Sherlock noticed the minute stiffening of the black-clad assassin’s spine at the sound of his and John’s voices as they ordered the person to stand down, realizing that the reaction went beyond that of someone being caught in the act: it was a realization of familiarity.

There was little time to be spared between his correct guess that their assassin was none other than his best friend’s fiancée (a situation that truly felt more at home in a soap-opera or reality television drama) and the fateful shot fired their way. And yet, Sherlock made it so that the bullet had no choice but to penetrate Sherlock’s sternum rather than John’s beloved heart.

Thankfully, John had always a quick shot: Mary met a quick and seamless demise at the hands of the quick-shot Captain Watson before she had the chance to even _consider_ firing off another bullet.

Sherlock had been made aware of this after waking up in the ICU; once he’d been shot, he’d retreated to the confines of his Mind Palace, taking stock of and minimizing what damage he could. While he struggled to avoid going into shock, John was shouting into his mobile for an ambulance; while he soldiered the unbelievable pain of his gunshot wound, John applied pressure, reassurances, and pleas in equal measures.

It was the thought that John Watson would not be safe without Sherlock there as his stalwart protector that had literally brought Sherlock back to life, a rather poetic full-circle considering he’d exiled himself to ‘death’ for John as well.

The weeks spent in recovery and truly godawful physical therapy were made just this side of bearable thanks to John’s unerring presence, his doctor’s orders and commiseration the soothing balm to wounds Sherlock hadn’t even known existed. They didn’t dare talk about what Mary’s betrayal meant for John and for his relationship with Sherlock until after they were firmly ensconced in 221B where they belonged.

His release from hospital merely signaled the commencement of therapy of a different sort: takeaways shared, talk shows shouted and laughed at in equal measure, smiles exchanged—things they’d had in their ‘previous life’, Life Before. There were also new additions to their routine: shouts and accusations hurled at hunched backs, tears shed, fears admitted, confessions made and truths revealed…

And yet, some things still remained to be said. Everything had not been unearthed from the depths of his soul; he was not being wholly truthful and upfront with John. It was painfully obvious that John’s perception of Sherlock’s priorities was severely outdated, in the detective’s humble opinion. _Married to The Work_ still remained watermarked upon his likeness in John’s eyes, Sherlock knew, and remedying this view was long overdue.

Sherlock would always remember this night, the night he’d showed his hand. He would go on to dedicate an entire foyer in his Mind Palace to this pivotal evening.

This night, ensconced in the respective embraces of their armchairs in front of the roaring hearth, safe from the freezing rain pelting their city just outside the confines of their flat, Sherlock read to John his best man’s speech in its unaltered entirety, completely stream-of-consciousness. It was the truest of admissions, not yet carefully picked over and edited to conform to a socially acceptable, platonic bond between two male friends.

“I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet,” Sherlock iterated while staring steadfastly at the crumpled papers in his shivering grasp. (Despite the fact that he’d committed the entire speech—along with all potential addendums and adlibs—to memory precisely twenty-four hours after he’d written it.)

“…I never expected to be _anybody’s_ best friend, certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John…” A quick, nervous glance up at the man in question, “I am a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. And as your best… friend…” he swallowed down a veritable swarm of butterflies that threatened the stability of his stomach, steeling himself for the most candid and implicating words of all:

“As the person who arguably loves you with the utmost conviction, to the brink of death, to the best of his abilities and beyond that, the very limits of what humankind could possibly fathom, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.

“I cannot claim that I believe Mary to be worthy of you. I cannot wrap my mind around the notion that she might love and protect you as you deserve and then some, as I myself have struggled and yet still failed to do. I cannot stand here today, with a fictitious God supposedly as my witness, and tell you that I am happy with whom you have chosen to dedicate yourself to.

“What I _can_ promise to you is that I will stand by you and your decisions beyond the shadow of a doubt; I will defend your choices, your love and your honor with my last breath; I will continue to do what I have done for what feels like a lifetime now, and let… you… _go_.”

He paused, startled when drops of precipitation punctuated his abused papers. His first, ridiculous thought was that the ceiling had somehow sprung a leak and the deluge was invading the sanctity of their flat from the outside, but then he became aware of the nasal quality his voice had taken and the tickle of moisture trekking down the bridge of his nose from his burning eyes. His next exhale left him with a rattling, ominous noise that was obscenely loud in the radio silence of their flat.

Fearing he’d scared John away with the truest words he’d ever spoken, Sherlock snapped his gaze to the armchair opposite his, only to lock eyes with an equally moved John whose face was flushed and damp with the telltale streaks of tears, whose hunched body spoke of heartache, whose breath hitched with just as many things unsaid.

He carried on with the remainder of his speech, now keeping his gaze steadfastly upon John.

_Keep your eyes on me._

He could be brave now, just as John had been then.

“I vow to let you go and enjoy the life you build with Mary at your side, to choose her as the one you shower the unparalleled treasures of your love and attention upon. I vow defend this choice that you have made, even as I refrain from making the false claim that Mary somehow deserves you, this incredible man who has endured war and injury and tragic loss.

“No one deserves you, John; we are all fortunate enough to be counted amongst those you… you love,” he stuttered at that, swallowing compulsively. “Even as we remain wholly unworthy of such a gift. But please know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your _wife_ and the man you have forever left your mark upon. You have irrevocably changed me; you have insinuated yourself within the very molecules of my being; you have shaken the sanctity of my own marriage to The Work.”

Sherlock quirked a tremulous smile at John’s hiccupping laughter even as he pressed forth. “You have far surpassed it as _the_ most essential component to my survival, and my unerring love for you has become my magnum opus, loving you has become the greatest…”

He choked down the sheer, overwhelming sentiment that fought to manifest as a pitiful sob. “The _greatest_ work I will ever have done. My heart has surpassed my mind as the single greatest achievement I have made, because it has dedicated itself wholly to you and  _you alone_ _._ I can only hope that Mary can claim to echo even a fraction of these sentiments when I say that we will _never_ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

The silence after his admission didn’t have the slightest chance to transform into a veritable chasm between them.

John rushed to close the physical distance separating him from Sherlock mere nanoseconds after his last vow had left his supplicating lips. They shared twin gasps of relief as their bodies became entwined, their lips mashing together with more desperation than coy confirmation of requited affections.

Things would never be simple between them, even with everything spelled out as it was. But that was the fundamental beauty of this, their newest Work, and they would carry it out to wherever life took them, to the end of their days and further still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you. And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done. But what's yours is yours, whether it’s up in the sky or here in your hands. And one day, it'll fall from the sky and hit you in the head real hard and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again.”_  
>  – C. Joybell C.
> 
> Yikes, so... a lot more intense and emotionally gravid than I'd originally expected this to be... And at a little over 2,400 words, it is the second longest of these prompt fills to date! Still, I can't say that I would have this one any other way. I hope you enjoyed all of the whompy!Johnlock that this entailed, as well as the ~corrections~ I've made to Sherlock's speech.
> 
> Huge thanks to the brilliant [arianedevere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), whose transcripts of [The Reichenbach Fall](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/31651.html?page=2) and [The Sign of Three](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html) have made it possible for this story to intimately and accurately borrow from and interact with dialogue straight from the show!
> 
> Let me know what you thought, and be on the lookout for tomorrow's piece!
> 
> xx Choice


	6. Where All is Sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Hair.
> 
>  _"...And then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony."_  
>  \- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a quick confession... I completely stressed over today's prompt (Hair). I spent the day in Philly with my family and enjoyed the Mütter Museum (with specimens of _hair_ , to boot!) and some seriously awesome food from Chinatown and the Reading Terminal, which helped with my block. But still! I definitely thought about this one a little too hard. I just didn't feel like taking the conventional route and focusing on either Sherlock's or John's heads of hair, lovely as they are. And let it be known that all of the hair idioms out there in the ethos are compelling, but nothing struck me as being exceptionally inspiring for a chapter.
> 
> While procrastinating, I stumbled upon [this fun little _Telegraph_ article](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/12074884/Sherlock-facts-things-you-didnt-know.html). The violin fact there is what led me to this [Testimonial of one Dr. John H. Watson on behalf of Sherlock Holmes](http://www.cardiffviolins.co.uk/testimonials/) (scroll to #6). And all I could think at that point was...
> 
> ...How could I _not_ write something about Sherlock's violin, specifically, the _hairs of his bow?!_ *wriggles eyebrows*
> 
> Cue an ethereal beam of light shining down upon me from the heavens while I was simultaneously struck by lightning, knocked over the head with a falling apple, and illuminated by the lightbulb going on above my head. Who says nothing productive can come of procrastination?
> 
> While you read, why not listen to the dulcet tones of [Bach's Partita No. 1 on Violin](https://youtu.be/sjDdPvMayCY?t=14m49s), like John? ;) Enjoy!
> 
> xx Choice

“I cannot believe we spent _two hours_ in that violin shop,” John huffed as they finally—finally!—made their long overdue return to their flat, bacon butties in tow from Speedy’s for a quick supper. “I literally refuse to accept the fact that that’s actually a thing that’s happened.”

Sherlock didn’t deign to offer John a response. The man was apparently too engrossed in tinkering with his newest violin and bow, which John _knew_ was an act: Sherlock had spent approximately twenty minutes doing the same fiddling and adjustments back in the shop, for crying out loud! How much tuning did a violin need?

“I was going to stop at Tesco’s too.” John shook his head as he flopped into his armchair, pulling his own sandwich from the paper bag with a grumble. “And by the time you got us out of those poor shop owners’ hair—remind me to send them a thank-you note, would you?—the shops were all closed!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but continued his obstinate silent act.

John fumed as he practically tore his sandwich open. “Which means you can kiss your beloved pilau goodbye, since I won’t be able to make it with my shift at the clinic!”

Sherlock paused, head tilting. “Pilau?” he questioned.

“The thing with the peas,” John retorted.

The detective rolled his eyes once more, so hard that John wondered if they’d roll right out of his obnoxious sockets. “Eat your dinner, John,” Sherlock suggested magnanimously, resining his bow. “Your impression of a crotchety old man becomes alarmingly accurate when you haven’t eaten your three square meals.”

“Piss off!” John snapped back, glaring daggers at Sherlock. They remained in a tense standstill for a moment before cracking identical grins at one another.

 _(“That’s not what people usually say.”_ )

“You’re becoming ordinary, John,” Sherlock warned with a snicker, dodging the balled-up napkin John chucked at him.

“Yeah, and you’re still an insufferable git.” John bit into his sandwich with relish, sighing in pleasure at the beautifully salty crispiness of bacon.

Sherlock aimed his bow at John, replying, “And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

And just like that, all of John’s previous ire melted. He smiled up at his friend, even as a slight blush rose to his cheeks. “Nope,” he gave the plosive an exaggerated pop before punctuating his declaration with another crunching bite of his butty.

Sherlock scoffed. “Be wary, John; your sentiment is showing.” Still, John could easily observe the man’s slight smile, the matching rosy hue of his face. “Now eat your sodding sandwich and I’ll play for you.”

Without preamble, Sherlock arranged his violin and bow into position, making minor adjustments to his or the instrument’s comportment before diving into whatever piece felt the most appropriate to him at the moment.

The unexpected one-on-one concert carried on long after John had finished his impromptu meal. He’d tugged an afghan over his lap as he listened, closing his eyes for a moment and simply marveling in yet another surreal moment spent with an equally brilliant man. With his eyes closed, he could be in a posh music hall, listening to a world-renowned violinist playing for a full house, but the reality when he’d opened his eyes once more was far more desirable.

Following his gut, which had never before led him astray, John stood and slowly traversed the distance between him and Sherlock, whose eyes had snapped open at the merest suggestion of movement from a usually-rapt audience, whose eyes asked a question that John felt he might have an answer for.

Wordlessly, John plucked the violin and bow from Sherlock’s grasp with utmost care—didn’t want a repeat of today’s excursion, heaven forbid—and placed them on the middle of the desk. John turned and, ever so slowly to give Sherlock time to move away from his advances, insinuated himself in Sherlock’s personal space, close enough to count the man’s eyelashes and smell the faintly waxy scent of resin lingering beneath his usual scent.

And without preamble, without any longwinded declarations, John tilted his head up and met Sherlock halfway in a deep yet chaste kiss. It was simply the most logical course of action, and who was John to argue against that which felt commonsensical?

“John,” Sherlock breathed once their mouths separated, his eyes still closed.

“Mmm?” John nosed his way beneath Sherlock’s chin to nibble at an unfairly gorgeous clavicle.

Sherlock’s next inhale stuttered in response. “Bed?”

“Oh god, yes.” 

* * *

 

_…and the other evening he treated me to a rendition of Bach’s Partita No. 1, which sounded particularly marvelous on it._

Several days later, in between the sentences of his testimonial for Cardiff Violins, John picked up his mug of tea for a quick sip. In the process of doing so, he happened to catch the eye of the selfsame man of his testimonial from across the room. When their gazes met, there was a quiet, satisfied moment shared between them, one whose significance didn't hinge upon spoken word.

The moment smoothed out of focus as Sherlock turned back to his own perusal of one of John’s quarterly medical journals, but the novel warmth existing between them smoldered further still.

Smiling to himself, John picked back up where he’d left off.

_He seems very pleased anyway…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think that the 'thing with the peas' that Sherlock had made reference to in canon might be a variant of Afghan pilau, which I thought I'd stumbled upon in a miraculous moment of brilliance only to recall [that one chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/896418/chapters/1974082) of Azriona's _Mise en Place_ where John shares an unexpected meal of pilau with Sherlock in his kitchen. Kudos and cred!
> 
> Also, there's apparently [quite a bit to know](http://www.cpr.org/classical/blog/10-facts-about-horsehair-string-player-s-bow) concerning the horsehair used for string instruments' bows... The more you know!
> 
> Hope you liked; stay tuned for tomorrow's post!
> 
> xx Choice


	7. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Love.
> 
> Sherlock had never fully realized just how much his own well-being hinged upon the constancy of John's attentions up until this point.
> 
> Content Warning: portrayal of a mildly unhealthy relationship/dependency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This day's prompt was "Love", which I paired with [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22636.html?thread=133329260#t133329260) that, in a nutshell, asked for an initially fascinated yet gradually dependent upon John's mollycoddling. Sorry if it's a bit heavy; I really couldn't resist!
> 
> xx Choice

Sherlock had never fully realized just how much his own well-being hinged upon the constancy of John's attentions up until this point, until it felt too late to act upon such a ridiculously startling situation.

…Was it startling, though? Why was it startling?

It should have been overwhelmingly obvious just how deeply invested Sherlock’s contentment and sanity was in John’s presence, specifically. And yet…

Sherlock clenched his hands, which suffered the minutest of tremors, into twin fists and curled his body into one corner of the couch as he wandered deep into his Mind Palace. A bit of recollection was in store for tonight, he thought, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the blatant absence of his conductor of light or Sherlock’s sudden desire for some good old-fashioned masochism.

Really, it didn’t.

* * *

Sent at 09:36

_John. –SH_

 

Sent at 09:43

_John. –SH_

 

Sent at 09:44

_Please answer whether convenient or not. Important. –SH_

 

Sent at 09:45

_JOHN! –SH_

 

Received at 9:46

_WHAT IS IT SHERLOCK._

 

Received at 9:47

_You KNOW I’m at work right now._

 

Sent at 9:47

_Need help for a case. –SH_

Sherlock twitched when his mobile began ringing, but he fluidly took the call and slotted the phone against his ear. “John.”

Even through the distance and tinny reception, John’s agitation was transmitted clear as day. Without preamble, he went in: “Sherlock, what is it that’s so important you can’t wait for me to get home, hmm?”

“It is vital that I have your assistance for this component of the case,” Sherlock replied, even as he slid into his loafers and readied himself for what would most likely be a solo outing. He didn’t even know why he was making an issue of this; it wasn’t like he’d never done this alone before. Still, he indulged in the petty enjoyment derived from putting the bees in John’s bonnet, so to speak.

He wasn’t prepared for John’s long sigh after a bit of a pause. He hesitated in slipping his coat on as John asked, “Do you need me right this second?”

Sherlock blinked. “Um. It is imperative that I get this taken care of within the hour.”

“Alright, give me…” a pause—Sherlock could perfectly picture John craning his neck as he squinted at the clock on his computer monitor. “15 minutes and I’ll meet you outside of Speedy’s, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked even more rapidly at the unexpected turn of events, still frozen in mid-action with his coat held at arm’s length.

“Sherlock…” John goaded good-naturedly.

“Uh, yes. Yes, that sounds…” he swallowed. “Amenable.”

John chuckled into the receiver. “Right, see you then.”

Sherlock stood with a dial-tone in his ear for a solid three minutes, pondering the quandary of John Watson, before he snapped himself out of it and finished getting ready.

* * *

After a few repeated incidents of varying urgency, Sherlock was intrigued by John’s apparent dedication to The Work. Inwardly, he admitted that such fervent commitment made him want to grin like a loon and gloat to the ever-insufferable Mycroft that Sherlock had been right to take John on as a flatmate.

He couldn’t help his natural curiosity to experiment a bit, test the limits of John’s willingness. It was only a matter of convenience that he just so happened to neglect eating for approximately fifty-two hours in the heat of an exciting study on the absorption rates of various cardstocks following a two-day whirlwind of a case (a forgivable 6). The reality of his transport’s overwhelming hunger only further cemented his display of theatrics when John went to go out on a date that evening.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked from his spot on the couch, even as he’d deduced some of John’s mannerisms to come to the (undoubtedly) correct conclusion himself. The man could be so predictable about certain things; he now had what Sherlock dubbed his “third-date” cologne, which did nothing but itch Sherlock’s olfactory senses something fierce.

“Got a date.” John fussed with his tie in the mirror over the mantel. “Need to leave to pick her up shortly, as a matter of fact.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock listlessly rolled up into a sitting position before standing, overemphasizing the natural bit of vertigo from such a sudden reorientation. He swooned on the spot a bit and John caught the tail-end of his imitation of a newborn giraffe in the mirror.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, rushing to his side, hackneyed tie forgotten. Sherlock leaned against John’s proferred arm, blinking a bit. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Hungry.” Sherlock gestured vaguely in the direction of their kitchen. “Should have something in the fridge.”

“No,” John muttered. “Haven’t been to Tesco’s in two weeks, and lord knows you don’t do the grocery shopping.”

Sherlock frowned. Well, _that_ was an unexpected inconvenience. “Pantry?”

“Nope.”

“Drawers.”

“Sherlock, we don’t keep any sustenance of any sort in the kitchen drawers,” John said slowly, as if talking to a particularly dense child. “All that’s in there are takeaway menus, bits and bobs, and the occasional forgotten preserved finger.”

Sherlock frowned into space. “Huh.”

John silently observed him for a bit before sighing that very long, reserved sigh of his. “Right then. Sit tight; I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock swiveled his head to gaze up at John from where he’d been carefully coaxed back onto the sofa. “When will you be home?”

John scoffed. “If you think that I’m leaving you here to go out with Debra tonight, you’re not as brilliant as I thought.”

Sherlock flushed in surprise and… satisfaction?... at not only John’s remark, but at how simple it had been to put an end to John’s wholly unnecessary socializing rituals like date nights. Why spend an evening interacting with someone who was no doubt duller than dirt clods when Sherlock was around? Still, he knew how John felt about dating and needing to get out there and meet with other people outside of their flat.

He must’ve been silent for far too long, because John was pressing the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead, a frown of concern on his face. “Earth to Sherlock, you still there?”

“I’m fine,” he intoned, only to be met with a pair of dramatically rolling eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” John scoffed as he turned to go back up to his bedroom. “I’m going to call Deb before it’s too late; think about what you want to order in, you mad bastard.”

Sherlock reveled in the warmth that spread from his cheeks into his chest cavity, rubbing at his breastbone in mild concern. Hopefully his usual abstaining from food wasn’t coming back to bite him in the arse, he mused.

* * *

They were at an utter standstill in the midst of a staged murder-suicide case, and their resources had practically run dry. Sherlock was feeling the tension particularly keenly, having passed up food since yesterday morning (three triangles of dry toast) as he delved through his Mind Palace and the evidence at hand. Nothing seemed to be adding up, the connections he could usually make at lightning speeds escaped him, frustrating him to no end.

The atmosphere within the confines of Baker Street reflected Sherlock’s poor mood. Mrs. Hudson had taken to walking on eggshells whenever he was in the vicinity, and John had taken to a stewing silence since Sherlock snapped at him that afternoon. He swore that their apprehension and moodiness served to distract him further.

“John,” he snapped, kneading at his pulsating temples.

He received a grunt from the aforementioned man’s armchair by the fire, punctuated by an exaggerated turning of the page in one of the files he was examining.

“Look up something on your laptop for me.”

He didn’t need to look over to see John roll his eyes, nor the way the man’s lips twitched in consternation. “Mine’s up in my room.”

“Then use mine!”

“And why can’t you do it yourself?” John asked with audible restraint. Sherlock finally deigned to look over at him, and he could see the tendons jumping in John’s neck like a bull ready to charge.

“My head,” he hissed, looking away to curl into the sofa cushions.

“What about your oversized head, you drama queen?” John grumbled, though from the sound of it, he was complying with Sherlock’s request.

He waited in silence as John loaded his laptop up, listening to the slow _peck-peck_ ing of the keys. “Sherlock.”

“Search Facebook again for our alleged suicidal culprit; this time, search through the groups he’s affiliated with. There might be something of value there.”

John was doing as he was told, but he repeated Sherlock’s name. “What do you mean about your head?”

“It’s just,” Sherlock huffed a bit, feeling silly. “…If I have to look at one more electronic screen, I fear I might develop a migraine.”

“You’ve a headache, then?” John asked. Without waiting for a response: “Do you need something for it?”

“Yes, and no.”

“Sherlock…” John warned.

“Just find the groups, specifically any fan-oriented ones, and report them to me out loud.”

“When was the last time you ate, or had something to drink?” John was as stubborn as a mule when it came to Sherlock’s daily routines, the detective had begun to realize.

“When did you take it upon yourself to act like my mother?” he retorted.

“So you haven’t eaten since yesterday, at the very least, then,” John drawled. He then proceeded to rattle off the groups as per Sherlock’s orders. Sherlock mumbled out a noise that might have been a thank you.

He cracked an eye open from where he lay prone on the sofa at the sound of movement, frowning as John snapped Sherlock’s laptop shut and exited the sitting room. Not a few minutes later, he returned with a full glass of water and a few tablets.

“Budge up,” Captain Watson ordered, no-nonsense. “And take this.”

Sherlock sighed but didn’t complain; when John had half a mind to coerce Sherlock into doing whatever it was he deemed necessary, he could be particularly mulish. He downed the tablets and polished off the water; he didn’t realize how parched he was until the cool liquid hit his tongue.

“Want a digestive, too?” John asked, already returning to the kitchen with the emptied cup to fetch Sherlock a refill. Sherlock grunted indifferently, but chewed on the couple of biscuits John brought back with him, sipping on the second glass of water.

He was suspicious as John took the seat beside him, only to experience full-out surprise when John set the half-empty glass of water on the coffee table and tugged at Sherlock’s lanky shoulders, repositioning them both so that Sherlock’s head lay cushioned by a throw pillow in John’s lap. He closed his eyes with a purr when John’s slightly callused, thick fingers began kneading into the stiff muscles of his shoulders and neck.

“Better?” John asked gruffly.

“Mmm.”

Admittedly, he felt a bit better after all was said and done, but it was too soon for the tablets to go into effect; perhaps this was yet another instance of the Watson Effect.

* * *

Through their time together, Sherlock had documented at least 45 instances of John forcing random foodstuffs and beverages upon him (besides tea, that is; that count was in the hundreds at this point and deserved its own category), 18 separate moments where John massaged various body parts (usually his neck, where tension tended to accumulate during strenuous cases), and 10 moments to date where John had deemed Sherlock’s various whims and needs far surpassed his dates’.

The evidence was staggering: John was his minder.

Sherlock had thought himself above coddling: he’d always dealt with his mother’s as a minor annoyance, tolerable yet wholly unnecessary once he’d reached the age of 12, and his father had never really been one for it. Any romantic dalliances he’d had generally steered clear of such behavior, although relationships were promptly terminated once they’d ventured into such a territory.

It wasn’t something he needed nor particularly relished in; it had always felt like more of a hindrance than anything else. And yet… when it came to John Watson and his form of coddling—from the offers of tea without being asked to the nagging about Sherlock’s eating habits and messiness even as he was fed and tended to—Sherlock felt anything but smothered. Rather, it felt like being enfolded in the snuggest of blankets, enveloped by aromatic bathwater of the most optimal temperature, treated to Angelo’s perfect ragout after having gone days without food.

Case in point: he needed John Watson.

This was the reason behind his mild panic attack of the moment, curled into a foetal position on the sofa just hours before midnight. It had been a long, trying week spent in the absence of John, who went and left Sherlock for some uninspired and horribly droll retreat with some of his old Army mates. Things had been fine until Sherlock found himself calling out to John asking what was for dinner before he realized his error; everything spiraled downhill from there, and the flat gradually felt too empty and husk-like, his skin too constraining and itchy, his mind buzzing like a hive of enraged bees.

_You make me right._

He was so engrossed in his epiphany to hear the front door open and the footsteps climbing up the staircase, and so he jumped at the cold press of John’s fingertips to his furrowed brow.

“John!” he gasped.

“What’s all this?” John murmured in concern, frowning as Sherlock hastened to sit up in the midst of the mess that was their flat. Every available surface seemed to be covered in the detritus of Sherlock’s malaise: torn-up bits of paper, crumpled packets of paracetamol, a miniature colony of mugs filled with varying levels of old tea, an ashtray surrounded by ash and cigarette stubs… the list went on.

“Sherlock?” John prompted at the detective’s unusual silence. “Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

“John,” Sherlock started.

“Yes, that’s me.” John gave him a half-smile, but the worry was still there. He took a seat beside Sherlock and rubbed up and down the man’s robe-clad back. “Are you okay?” he repeated.

“You weren’t here.”

“No,” he replied, humoring Sherlock. “I wasn’t. I told you, I had a thing—“

“I know, I remembered.” Sherlock fiddled with the frayed edges of his robe fastenings.

“Then why state the obvious?” he asked.

Sherlock swore his heart was stuttering, and it felt like he couldn’t breathe. The world began to tip on its axis, his vision tunneling, and John’s voice was muffled in its alarm.

A while later—minutes or hours, he wasn’t sure—Sherlock came back to himself and found that he’d been moved to John’s lap, being hugged chest-to-chest like a toddler. There was a steady rumble that grounded him, and he quickly realized that was the timbre of John’s voice telling him to _Breathe, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re alright, just breathe…_

He turned and nuzzled his nose into the intimate nape of John’s neck, taking solace from the unique smell of this glorious human being.

They were quiet for a little while, John gently skating the fingers of one hand up Sherlock’s spine to card through his hair once, then twice, before meandering down once more, only to repeat the soothing motions. His other arm was wrapped tight around Sherlock’s waist, holding him close.

“What’s this all about, Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

“You weren’t here and it made me realize just how much I… rely upon you, need you to function, and how pathetic I really am.” Sherlock mumbled all of this into John’s neck, eyes closed as he focused on the other man’s touch.

He could feel the way John stiffened slightly at his response. After a moment: “Sherlock, you are not pathetic for needing someone. I need you—I really do,” he insisted over the beginnings of Sherlock’s protests. “You give my life purpose, excitement, comfort. You let me coddle you like the ridiculous mother hen I am. You include me in The Work, even though I never feel all that helpful.” He paused before quietly admitting, “You gave me a home when I had nothing else to come back to.”

He gently pushed Sherlock back a bit to look into his eyes. “How you could think otherwise, I don’t know. Sometimes I worry one day you’ll be bored of _me_ , and then I’d be lost.” He chuckled in a poor stab at humor.

“Never,” Sherlock insisted with fervor.

John offered him a more genuine grin. “Good. And, well, if it wasn’t clear enough already, it’s the same for me. I love what we have, Sherlock, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Alright?”

“Alright,” Sherlock murmured with a small smile.

They grinned stupidly at one another for a beat, before John laughed a bit breathlessly. “Well, is it safe to assume that you haven’t eaten a proper meal since I left? What do you say we pick up some takeaway for a late dinner?”

Sherlock hummed as he nestled closer to John. “Not that hungry. Can we just…?” He waved a hand at the couch until John got the hint, flushing a bit as they maneuvered themselves into a slightly awkward horizontal cuddle.

“Speak a word of this to Mycroft and I will personal ensure the fiery demise of each and every jumper you own,” Sherlock warned, forcibly insinuating himself into John’s arms.

John snickered and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more. “I wouldn’t dare.”


	8. Between Shooting Stars and Satellites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Cuddles.
> 
> It should come as no surprise to those who knew them to learn that the more carnal aspects of Sherlock and John’s relationship are a bit… shall we say, unorthodox.
> 
> Content warning: explicit sex scene, high sensitivity to 'non-sexual' touching, praise kink, and discussion of other kinks and subspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day behind, I know, and I apologize! I'm working to get caught up today. 
> 
> For Day 8's prompt, "Cuddles", I opted to use this as yet another opportunity to do another fill for [a prompt on LJ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22636.html?thread=133334380#t133514348). Anon asked for Sherlock being particularly sensitive to non-sexual touch (with the added option of a sexual!J/S relationship).
> 
> I added a praise kink into the works as well, just because while I was thinking up the "plot" for this one, my headcanon!John insisted upon showering his favorite detective with all the compliments, which Sherlock was highly receptive to. I hope that's alright with you, anon! ♥
> 
> Sit back and enjoy! And hopefully I'll be posting another chapter for you later on today.
> 
> xx Choice

It should come as no surprise to those who knew them to learn that the more carnal aspects of Sherlock and John’s relationship are a bit… shall we say, unorthodox.

Naturally, they went from Sherlock and John to Sherlock- _and_ -John without much effort, diving headfirst with neither thought nor care to any of the potential consequences a romantic relationship might bear. Truth be told, little had changed: everyone they associated with had been convinced they’d been buggering before the end of their first week of knowing one another, and they had always had a rather intimate and unusual way of navigating their friendship.

While people like Donovan or Anderson fancied Sherlock a completely asexual android between the sheets, Lestrade had always goaded John about how kinky the detective must be in bed. And with all of the coy winks and double-entendres Mrs. Hudson threw their way without fail, John was compelled to believe that she thought along similar lines. _“I bet he deduces the knickers off of you,”_ his sister had once teased during one of her more sober moments in their phone conversations.

They were by no means shy about publicly acknowledging the fact that they did, in fact, have a sexual relationship—though, surprisingly, Sherlock tended to be more frank about it than John. (John still remembered Sherlock’s near-immediate shutdown of an interested witness with fond exasperation. Honestly, as if John would leave him for greener pastures.)

John found this openness both slightly embarrassing and arousing, verbally chastising Sherlock for potentially scandalizing their acquaintances and clients even while a little, electric thrill raced through his being at the confidence and boldness of his madman.

He knew Sherlock wasn’t fooled by outward appearances, given that he did it at the most inopportune moments to rile John something fierce, and the way he grinned like the cat that ate the canary when John would corner him for a snog as soon as possible.

Some things, however, were better kept between them. Things like Sherlock’s borderline unhealthy dependence upon John when it came to observing basic human functions like eating or sleeping, or John’s need for fulfilling his caretaker instincts on a more intimate level.

And then, of course, there was _this_.

* * *

John released a groan of relief at the sound of their flat door being opened, practically herding Sherlock up the stairs in his haste to settle down for the day. It was barely noon, but it felt more like oh three hundred hours. They had both been put through the ringer on their latest case for the Met, working for a good three days straight to ensure that a kidnapping didn’t take a turn for the worse before they could smoke out the suspect.

Things had ended on a fairly positive note with minimal damages: the victim was shaken and a bit battered up and dehydrated by thankfully alive, while the suspect had a piss-poor aim and missed landing a bullet in John’s good shoulder by a long shot.

Toeing off his shoes and hanging up their coats, John set about easing them into their post-case routine. Sherlock was coaxed into a hot shower with minimal effort, while John himself saw to a quick meal. Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, had left a neatly arranged antipasto platter, full of carefully rolled cured meats, cubes of cheese, briny olives, and more. A half-loaf of crusty bread lay on the counter by the sink, since the breadbox was full of one of Sherlock’s long-term experiments.

He made a mental note to send thanks to Mrs. Hudson once they’d gotten some shut-eye in. He sliced up some bread and popped a marinated artichoke heart into his mouth, nearly moaning at the sensation of food hitting his palate after so long. They would have to take it easy, eating smaller portions throughout the day to avoid getting sick, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t relish in the simple act of eating.

John heard the telltale padding of bare feet coming down the hall, and he scooped up the platter, along with the cutting board piled with some hunks of bread before entering the sitting room. He smiled at the sight of a fuzzy-looking Sherlock blinking up at him from the sofa, setting his load down onto the coffee table before pressing a kiss against the fresh skin of the other man’s forehead.

“Remember, eat slow,” John reminded quietly before retracing his steps to get them something to drink (water instead of tea).

They shared a companionable silence as they nibbled at their impromptu meal, leaning progressively more and more against one another in their mutual exhaustion. Only when Sherlock was starting to doze with a bit of prosciutto in his mouth did John finally muster up the strength to move their routine along.

The half-finished platter was put back into the fridge while the cutting board was dusted free of any crumbs, and Sherlock sleepily insisted that he would wait up for John while the man took his turn in the shower. John just offered him a dopey grin, ruffling up Sherlock’s puffy curls before heading into the adjoining bathroom.

After a brisk wash-down, John got into bed wearing just his pants and curled himself around a snoring Sherlock like a limpet before he too passed out.

* * *

A few hours later, John was forced out of a dreamless slumber to take a trip to the loo. He blearily examined the fading light streaming in through the edges of the blinds, guessing that it must be a little before five in the evening without really caring how accurate his estimate was.

Given the fact that Lestrade had been working alongside them for most of the case, he doubted they’d be called upon for any statements or other cases until Monday at the earliest; that, paired with the fact that John was on a strictly on-call basis at the clinic, meant that they had little, if any, obligations for the weekend. John reveled in that knowledge, as it meant more time for him to assimilate Sherlock and himself back into post-case mode.

When he crawled back into bed, Sherlock was awake. “Hey love,” John greeted _sotto voce_ , pressing himself over Sherlock’s top half to press a chaste kiss to the man’s perfect lips.

“Need a piss,” Sherlock grumbled as he, too, stumbled out of bed. John snorted at the man’s uncharacteristic display of clumsiness, which was further evidence that more sleep was in order.

He knew, however, that with a bit of sleep under his belt, Sherlock would have a harder time of nodding off again, whereas John, still sort of accustomed to the unpredictable sleep schedule of a military surgeon, could find sleep with minimal effort.

With that thought in mind, he reached for his nightstand drawer to pluck two objects from its organized depths. He didn’t bother with any futile attempts at hiding them, as Sherlock could unerringly deduce John’s actions and thoughts in his absence with such a minimal margin of error it was practically nonexistent. Instead, John set them out on the nightstand in the order they’d be needed and slipped out of his clothes as he listened for Sherlock’s return.

Once the man had ensconced himself back under the covers—sans his clothes after a cursory glance at his bedmate—he wasted no time in reorienting himself so that they lay flush against one another, John’s front slotted perfectly against Sherlock’s back.

Reaching with one hand for the lube he’d set out, John nuzzled the delicate shell of an ear and whispered a litany of compliments, ranging from _You were brilliant_ to _Amazing—how did you get that all from a piece of chewing gum?_

Whereas John reveled in the lightning-speed deductions Sherlock could fire off in the adrenaline-filled climax of a case, Sherlock derived a particularly sensual pleasure from the opulent and heartfelt praises that John showered upon him following the conclusion of a tough-to-crack case. It was virtually coded into their DNA, borne out of their origins.

John had known Sherlock was something special the moment he’d flayed John open on that fateful day in St. Bart’s, just as Sherlock had cottoned onto the uniqueness of one John Watson when he failed to be put off by Sherlock’s curtness, opting for very vocal enthrallment that lacked the usual patronizing, snarky undertones he’d been accustomed to.

Sherlock was humming his approval long before John’s lubricated fingers sought his entrance, undulating his body in tandem with the syllables of John’s quiet admiration. Given how relaxed and sleepy-soft Sherlock was, John had two, then three of his fingers buried into Sherlock’s snug warmth in no time at all. On the final, gentle thrust of his hand, John fanned his fingers out ever so slightly while flicking his wrist, admiring the way the muscles of Sherlock’s entrance stretched around his digits.

Wiping his fingers on the corner of the bedsheet, John reached for the second object he’d laid out, a utilitarian plug made of stainless steel in gunmetal grey. He added a generous smear of lube to its rippled body, feeling a thrill at the cold, heavy weight of the plug in his grasp before moving to swivel it against Sherlock’s gently fluttering hole.

“And the look on his face when you made him slip up—god, I know you enjoyed it as much as I did, you amazing, beautiful man,” John murmured, continuing his stream of praises without conscious effort as he teased the chilled head of the plug into Sherlock.

He licked his lips at the beautiful sight, the deep smoke of unfeeling metal against the stark vibrancy of flushed flesh, and delighted in the faintly audible drag of Sherlock’s hole as it tried to grab hold of the toy.

John could feel the wet trail from his erect cock where it pressed against Sherlock’s side, and he gently rocked his hips to stimulate his sensitive head. Sherlock’s penis lay at about half-mast but was showing twitching signs of interest in the ministrations. He made quick work of pressing the plug deep inside Sherlock, the toy’s body rapidly vanishing once it had breached Sherlock deep enough.

“So greedy for attention, aren’t you?” He whispered—to that now-stuffed hole, to the man himself—tapping at the smooth, flat base a few times with his index finger. He delighted in the minute clenching of Sherlock’s arse and, succumbing to temptation, gave one of those twitching cheeks a few gentle pats.

He ignored his own borderline-painful arousal for the moment: there would be time for that later. Now was the time to get Sherlock so keyed up he wouldn’t know the periodic table in order of ascending atomic numbers, let alone his own name.

He steeled himself with a slow, deep inhalation, reaching out to trail his fingers up Sherlock’s spine as he breathed out. Endearments like “Beautiful,” “Brilliant,” and “Unparalleled” spilled from his lips as he began kneading Sherlock’s shoulders in earnest.

Sherlock began to hum at the diverted attention, his cock softening a bit but his body shivering a bit in suspense for what was to come. John moved from strong shoulders to tickle his fingertips down lithe, ropy arms, mentally cataloguing the various muscle groups— _biceps brachii, brachioradialis, extensor carpi radialis longus_ —to distance himself somewhat from the erotic noises that began burbling forth from the maddening detective.

Erotic didn’t even begin to describe how Sherlock sounded to John, especially when he traveled back up one arm to knead and press at the junction where shoulder met neck and neck met skull. He sounded absolutely sinful as he took pleasure from the simplest and non-sexual touches.

It had come as a bit of a shock, the first time he experienced Sherlock’s penchant for physical touch. They’d always been pretty warm with one another before they began their romantic relationship, but theirs had never been a particularly touchy-feely friendship. There was the very occasional hug or accidental brushing of various body parts that came with coexistence, but it hadn’t been until they were officially an item—for lack of a better word—and John felt more comfortable with initiating the physical intimacy he so desperately craved that he realized just how sensitive Sherlock was to being touched.

He would notice that Sherlock would fidget uncomfortably whenever John would go to hug him close or rub his back while they relaxed together. John initially backed off, thinking he was doing something wrong. Even as crestfallen as he had felt, John would rather feel depraved of the cuddling he loved than intrude upon any boundaries with Sherlock. Their connection was far too valuable for that.

Sherlock had figured him out, of course. Though the manner in which he went about setting John straight was laughably abrupt and completely Sherlock, John could tell how much the admission taxed the other man.

 _“I just… really,_ truly _enjoy it when we… we_ cuddle _.”_

He’d said ‘cuddle’ as if it were on par with Anderson on his particularly pigheaded days, and John had snickered for a bit until he realized his laughter seemed to make Sherlock curl in on himself.

 _“Hey,”_ he’d said. _“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, liking cuddling, you know. I love it, myself.”_

 _“Yes, John, but I_ really _love it.”_

What had been unclear at the fore had quickly become absolutely transparent: immediately following Sherlock’s confession, John hastened to show the man just how much he loved pleasing him and fulfilling his whims by offering to give him a chaste backrub.

The moment his fingers had begun to press into surprisingly thick, solid muscle, Sherlock shuddered and moaned. It was as if his fingertips were sending electrical currents throughout the man’s body. He’d repeatedly checked in with Sherlock, making sure he wasn’t in pain or anything, and was bemusedly aroused to find that Sherlock genuinely found physical touch especially stimulating.

And it made sense now, considering how obsessed the man was with fine high-thread bedsheets, bespoke suits, and his silky-smooth blue scarf, or the cashmere sweater he’d insisted upon gifting to John as an early Christmas present that he would always nuzzle his face into.

He was a very tactile being, and anything like chalkboards or (god forbid) brushed stainless steel set him off and made him squirm in disgust. Given the ample evidence, it was child’s play to deduce the fact that Sherlock had a thing for deriving pleasure of astronomical proportions from otherwise unassuming touches. It was one of the many things that made Sherlock unique, that made John covet their intimacy.

In the present, gently smoothing his thumb over the knuckles of Sherlock’s right hand and basking in the panting moans that elicited, John wouldn’t change a thing about this lovely man.

He pressed his face into the curvature of Sherlock’s neck as he wrapped his limbs all around Sherlock in a full-body embrace. A few nuzzles left Sherlock shuddering and crying out: _“John, yes, right therepleasethere!”_

He acquiesced, squeezing tight as he rubbed his stubble up and down the elegant column of Sherlock’s neck. He carded his hand through Sherlock's hair and then traced a finger along the man’s pronounced clavicle, following it all the way down to his breastbone as Sherlock arched back into him. “Jooohn- _uh!_ ”

As suddenly as Sherlock’s vocalizations began, they tapered off into panting silence. From the limp body in his arms, John could tell that Sherlock had reached a climax of a different sort, even as his penis remained a heavy weight against his thigh.

John let him float in what he’d begun to think of as his subspace, his sympathetic nervous system responding to the overwhelming sensations of John’s chaste touch with a rush of endorphins, epinephrine, and enkephalins. It was a delicate state, and John always experienced a heady sort of satisfaction at the implicit trust that Sherlock had in John and his ability to look after Sherlock when the man was unable to do it for himself.

He loosened one arm from where it wrapped around Sherlock to reach down and bend the man’s uppermost leg at the knee. He whispered praise and gratitude for everything about Sherlock, from his brilliant mind to his ardent heart, as he carefully worked the plug out of Sherlock’s relaxed bum, giving it a soothing pat.

“Sherlock, sweetheart, I’d like to have sex with you now. Is that alright with you?” he asked, setting the plug back onto the table, stem-side down. He received a noncommittal hum in response.

“I need a clear answer, love,” John gently reminded as he grabbed a hold of the lube once more. “May I have penetrative sex with you now?”

“Mmmyes.”

He slicked his leaking cock with the lubricant and his own pre-ejaculate as he asked, “Can you tell me your safeword, Sherlock?”

A gentle stretch of limbs, a rippling shudder down Sherlock’s spine. “Proboscis.”

“And you will use it at any time if you want me to stop, whatever I’m doing?” he persisted.

He could hear coherency beginning to return to Sherlock as he huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yes, John. Promise.”

“Good boy.” John cooed the words out as he planted a series of kisses along Sherlock’s shoulder blade, watching as goose-pimples rose almost instantaneously at the combination of praise and touch. “Good boy,” he repeated.

He slowly entered Sherlock, meeting little resistance thanks to the utterly pliant state the man was in. John had to pause once he was buried to the hilt, wanting to last more than a few crude thrusts. He grasped onto Sherlock’s bent knee for leverage, etching a starburst pattern along the man’s patella just to hear the man cry out and clench around him.

After a moment, he began rocking in and out of Sherlock, getting lost in the slick heat and the utter feeling of connection. His hand continued a journey down one lightly haired shin before tracing up along the twitching muscles of a well-defined _gastrocnemius_ muscle.

Without this added stimulus, John knew Sherlock would come back all too soon, would return to his usual, composed self. And while John loved every version of Sherlock he’d met and had yet to meet, he wanted to wring out as much pleasure for them both, to take them to a euphoric high and slowly guide them down into sleepy satisfaction.

Because that was what Sherlock- _and_ -John were about. Just as their relationship had been built up from rather unusual foundations, so too did their sexual proclivities. Their respective needs and desires would always be so perfectly met by the other; no one else would do.

Sure, it made for plenty of frustration and wasted time on doomed relationships (on John’s end, at least) but here and now, seconds away from spilling his own release into the man he’d fully devoted himself to, the man who was once again lost to babbling incoherency beneath John’s ministrations, John wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Phew!_ I think this is the longest chapter yet. And of course it's a bit of fluffy, shameless smut. P: Sorry not sorry!
> 
> Side Note: Information/clinical description of subspace from [this blog post](https://modemworld.me/ds-essays/finding-space-part-1-subspace/); information regarding muscle groups and things from [this helpful site](http://www.healthline.com/human-body-maps/).
> 
> Look forward to more in a bit, loves! xx


	9. Flowers in Your Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9: Flower Crowns.
> 
> Of celebrations and floral headgear. Schmoopy (and perhaps fairly unrealistic) Parentlock!
> 
> Content Warning: male pregnancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credit goes to Mumford & Son's "After the Storm"! ( _...And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears. Get over your hill and see what you find there, with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair._ )
> 
> This was written in one go, without much fussing or edits, so I apologize for the unabashed sappy domesticity of it all! I promise I'll try to diversify my offerings for this challenge, truly, I do!
> 
> Content Warning: you can look at it as either mpreg or FTM pregnancy. There's also a coma-inducing amount of domestic bliss in this one.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

Sherlock took one look at him, barely a second’s glance, before offering up a terse: “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” John asked in bewilderment. He glanced down at the bundle in his hands before looking back at his husband. “I haven’t even said anything for you to disagree with yet!”

Sherlock shielded his own bundle with both hands, glaring daggers at John from across the entryway. “Your intentions are clear as day without you announcing it to all and sundry, or have you forgotten what it is that I do for a living?”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, now you’re just being dramatic.”

“ _I’m_ being dramatic?” Sherlock looked at him askance. “Really now, because I’m not the one touting about that… vile… _thing,_ ” he spat, waving one dismissive hand over at John’s proffered item.

“For Chrissakes, Sherlock, it’s a bleeding flower crown, not a pile of cow dung!” John gesticulated with said crown, waving the tiny ring of woven pale blush and off-white roses and mossy green leaf accents around like he would his Sig at a particularly obstinate suspect. “It’s supposed to be cute!”

“From a completely objective standpoint, John, you must admit that Delia is by far the cutest being to have every existed,” Sherlock reasoned, gently running his palms over the flaxen crown of their sleeping daughter’s head. From where she was snugly swaddled in her papoose against Sherlock’s front, John could see their little angel had by some stroke of luck, managed to remain sleeping throughout her fathers’ squabbling.

John unabashedly cracked a goofy smile down at the little girl as he walked over to the pair of them, his little family. “Gods, but she is,” he breathed in agreement. “Much as it pains me to agree with you, you sod.” Their eyes met and they shared a quiet snicker.

The laughter quickly tapered off, and Sherlock gave a wistful sort of sigh. “I can’t believe she’s one already,” he murmured candidly. They both gazed down at Delia as Sherlock carried on in a whisper: “I mean, _obviously_ I logically know that she has been in existence here with us for approximately three hundred and sixty-five days, five hours, and twenty-odd minutes, but it’s still…” he floundered for the right words with which to express how he was feeling at that moment.

John felt a pang of empathy for his beloved husband, pulling him close with an arm around the man’s gangly yet strong shoulders. “I know what you mean, love,” he reassured. “Even when she’s in her terrible teens, I fancy I’ll always envision her as that pink, squalling little banshee like on the day we first said hello.”

He smartly did not comment upon the sniffles he most definitely heard coming from Sherlock’s direction, mostly due to his own misty eyes and suddenly-tight throat.

“We must have another, John,” Sherlock insisted after a moment’s composure. His voice was still sort of tight with barely-concealed panic. “I won’t have her being a bored, lonely only child without a brother or sister, even though siblings can be such pesky, hit-or-miss things.”

“Woah,” John laughed. “I’m sorry, but weren’t you the one screaming at me that you’d sooner turn me into a eunuch than bear another one of my children?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if John were being the dramatic one. “I’m allowed to change my mind, and I’ve decided that I want more children. Another girl, preferably, but I’m amenable to a boy as well.”

“Good to know,” John remarked dryly. “So are we going to move this into the party hall, before everyone eats all the food without us, or would you like to natter on about babies and continue to bore our poor little girl to sleep?”

He ran a gentle finger over the bridge of an upturned nose and watched with a soppy smile as Delia grumbled and cracked her eyes open, sending a stormy glance up at her Daddy with all the vitriol and disdain for humankind that her father exuded on a regular basis. Perhaps it was a matter of Holmesian genetics or contracted via proximity to her Papa, or maybe it was sheer coincidence that her expression of ire could rival Sherlock’s on any given day. Regardless, John felt his heart warm at that little moue, moving to tickle a cherubic chubby cheek until Delia reluctantly giggled.

“Daddy’s very irritating at the best of times, I know,” Sherlock told his daughter patronizingly, voice devoid of the ‘baby talk’ register that he absolutely abhorred and banned from their flat. “But we love him dearly for it now, don’t we? That’s called ‘masochism’, darling. Mas-o-chism.”

“And here I thought it was being in love.” John snickered at Sherlock’s poorly concealed amusement. “Alright come on you two. And Delia is wearing this crown, at least for as long it takes us to walk through the door. Otherwise I’ll have wasted money on this blasted thing for nothing.”

Sherlock shot him a coy glance that somehow managed to come across as simultaneously nervous. “You could always save it for the next one.”

John scoffed, missing the plot entirely. “I’m not going to toss it into a storage box to collect dust for who knows how long and—“

“John.” Sherlock was giving him a pointed look at this point. John stopped his verbal tirade long enough for Sherlock to add in an emphatic double-eyebrow-raise.

“Cor,” he breathed out. “You can’t mean…”

“Your wait time will be approximately six more months, so this frou-frou atrocity won’t be left to collect too much dust.” He was grinning sheepishly now, his eyes a bit glassy.

John whooped and carefully pulled both baby and husband close in a hug. Delia squawked at the disturbance, flailing her plump little arms about in an attempt to express her outrage at being manhandled as she was. At that precise moment, Mrs. Hudson had opened the hall doors to go and fetch the boys. At her (and everyone else’s) startled look, John announced, “We’re having another baby!”

His declaration was met with an echo of cheers, claps, and sniffles, while a teary Mrs. Hudson admonished them. “Well, that’s no reason to turn your poor first-born into a pancake now, is it? The nerve of them, eh, little love?” she whispered conspiratorially to Delia as she scooped the angrily babbling little babe from Sherlock’s papoose, swinging the baby to rest against her side. Without preamble, she snatched the flower crown dangling from John’s grasp and propped it on Delia’s head, much to the little girl’s clapping delight.

“Well, what are you two boys waiting for? Let’s get to celebrating!”

Baby-free, John wasted no time in scooping Sherlock into a tight, excited embrace and tugging them both into the party room where the celebration was in full swing, ready for the words of congratulations and whatever else life deemed fit to toss their way.

 


	10. Child's Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Balloons.
> 
> Balloon animals, or meat daggers? The world may never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a bit silly and cracky to break things up a bit! I wrote this late last night and I'm glad I did, because I woke up this morning feeling like absolute crap. Off to the doctor's (at some point) for me!
> 
> Today's prompt of "Balloons" had me drawing a bit of a blank, even though Merriam-Webster had plenty of things to say about it, but I eventually wound up... here, so. Also, random but relevant note! The Flying Dragon had been a famous ship named by the pirate, Edmund Condent. I felt a vague nod to Smaug(lock?) was warranted. ;D
> 
> Hope you enjoy this not-so-serious fill!
> 
> xx Choice

It had seemed like a never-ending shift at the clinic. He’d been hit on by a randy older man who'd come in for a routine digital rectal exam, vomited upon on two separate occasions, cursed at by a hypochondriachal woman when he didn't prescribe her pills for a case of the sniffles, and sneezed and coughed upon more times than he could count. It had been a hell of a day.

Right now, all John wanted to do was go home, relax, maybe have a bit of "triple T" (tea and takeaway and TV) with Sherlock, and go to bed. He did not factor in the possibility of the other man having taken on a client whose children’s entertainment company was allegedly being sabotaged by a gang-lord relative. Nor did he expect to walk into a veritable minefield of…

“Sherlock…” John asked slowly, dropping his coat on what little space of clear floor there was.  _What the actual, buggering fuck was he looking at?_

“Yes, John.”

“What are…" His voice died out as he shook his head in disbelief. John tried again: "What did you _do?_ ”

“What does it look like?” Sherlock scoffed from his position by the unlit fireplace, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he fiddled with the mechanism of a balloon pump. Strewn around him—the entire flat, really—was a swarm of balloon creations that looked suspiciously like…

John picked up one of the bigger specimens, a bright magenta number. It squeaked in his grasp. “It looks like… well.” He cleared his throat to stave off a sudden bout of giggles.

Sherlock abandoned his attempts, tossing the pump over his shoulder as he leveled John with a look that dared the doctor to argue otherwise: “It is a _sword_ ," he said decisively.

John felt his lips twitch. “Oh, is _that_ what it is?” he asked, gripping the long… thing by its staff as he took in the long shaft and oddly rounded pair of loops tied off around the end.

“Yes.”

They stared at each other for approximately five seconds in complete and utter silence before cracking up into obnoxious guffaws.

“You—you made a bunch of _penis swords_ , Sherlock!”

“I didn’t mean…!”

“Balls, _actual_ balls! Fucking Christ…”

“Not my fault you're a _pervert!”_

And so the remainder of the night was spent snickering like schoolchildren and sparring with their horde of cheerfully colored inflatable meat daggers. There was no triple T to be had, but there was a brief stop for some finger sandwiches (courtesy of a scandalized yet amused Mrs. Hudson) and pop, and all case- and work-related stresses were forgotten that night in the raging battle between Sir John, Noblest Knight of the Round Table, and Captain William Holmes of the The Flying Dragon.


	11. The Spice of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11: Cooking.
> 
> Sherlock was fully convinced that the solution to the impermanence of John’s residence in 221B was an adapted replication of domesticity. It would serve as a suitable mimicry of married life that John had grown accustomed to during his time with Not-Mary, and it began with some good old-fashioned research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not fret, beloved readers: I LIVE!!
> 
> I've been sick with a _lovely_ cold these past few days, and I apologize for the minor setback in terms of updates. I'm hoping to get caught up by the end of today but make no promises, as I'm also hoping to clean my room up a bit and still, regretfully, feeling sick.
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoy this one! I really wanted to do wonderful things with the 'Cooking' prompt, and while this could have easily been a short, multi-chapter story, I hope I captured the same amount of feels in this one-shot. Not sure I liked how I ended it, but... *shrugs*
> 
> Enjoy! xx

It had been nearly three months since John’s homecoming. Three months since his sham of a marriage to a woman whose identity and pregnancy were equally fabricated was put to rest. Three months since Sherlock had finally, miraculously, felt like something vaguely resembling _contentment_ was well within his grasp. It was an alien sensation to him, something he’d not been familiar with since sometime before Moriarty had come along and mucked about with Sherlock’s life the first time around.

Through some twist of fate, despite murdering a media magnate in cold blood in front of scores of witnesses, Sherlock found himself living relatively scot-free. It was an existence he did not take for granted in the least, and one that he’d worked hard to preserve for himself. Putting an end to Moriarty once and for all had been tedious, to say the least, but once he’d finally eviscerated the criminal organization from well within its infested bowels—properly this time around, alongside John, his brother, one heretofore unnamed (yet easily deduced) member of London’s Finest, and surprisingly, Hudders (from the sidelines, at least)—it was fairly cut-and-dry after that.

As being primarily responsible for securing the continued safety and preservation of England as they knew it, Sherlock was granted lenience for the crime he had committed, no matter how well-meaning said crime had been.

And yet, part of him still felt a certain degree of restlessness, like there were a number of variables still behaving rather unpredictably in his life for him to experience a truly well-deserved (in his humble opinion) peace.

One such variable was, as always, one John Watson.

The sight of John’s preferred mug back in the flat’s cupboard beside his, John’s toothbrush beside his, John’s house-robe draped upon its usual peg (yes, yes, beside his), and so much more did little to still his frantic fears that John would eventually find himself a newer, better abode to call _home._ Despite his friend’s constant reassurances that John was back for good, that there would be nothing more besides 221B Baker Street and The Work, Sherlock knew he was coexisting with John on borrowed time. The moment John found another woman—hopefully, someone who was who she claimed to be, for starters—Sherlock could kiss his dream of returning to The Way Things Were goodbye for good.

He couldn’t blame John for his proclivities; even as Sherlock’s beloved conductor of light, even John Watson succumbed to the allure of the ordinary at the end. What Sherlock _could_ do, however, was distract John from those commonplace desires of his.

That was what Sherlock had convinced himself, at any rate, when he’d signed up for these dreaded, tedious things called _home economics courses._

* * *

Born of hours’ worth of languishing about in his Mind Palace, Sherlock was fully convinced that the solution to the impermanence of John’s residence in 221B was an adapted replication of domesticity. It would serve as a suitable mimicry of married life that John had grown accustomed to during his time with Not-Mary, and it began with some good old-fashioned research.

When he learned of home economics, colloquially referred to as “Home Ec”, Sherlock promptly signed himself up for a few related—free—courses at the local women’s group. He’d bungled his way through various themed courses with varying levels of irritation, Stitching and Mending being one of his most memorable failures, before stumbling upon Cooking and Confectionery and discovering that he:

  1. Wasn’t absolutely abysmal at the subject, and
  2. He showed promise enough that the instructor recommended he switch over to the Kitchen Mastery courses offered on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.



Granted, Sherlock felt that the instructor simply wanted to get Sherlock out of her hair, but he could overlook that fact.

And so he found himself becoming more and more immersed in the art of cooking and baking. Not only were they fundamental to human survival, but they also involved a good deal of chemistry, rationalization, experimentation, and deduction.

Sherlock soon found himself with a newly-built gourmet kitchen in his Mind Palace, dutifully organized and with bits of recipes and factoids squirreled away in any available space, from on the stainless steel fridge to underneath the awaiting cutting board. (The board itself was delegated to his current musings on various cooking methods.)

He’d even fashioned an exact replica of John’s mug, carefully positioned alongside a gleaming French press, whose contents included the man’s dining preferences and observed culinary aversions.

Between the long stretches of time spent within the confines of his Mind Palace organizing his newly acquired culinary information and in his cooking courses, Sherlock could sense John becoming more and more suspicious of his friend’s whereabouts. A rational fear, Sherlock had to admit, given the fact that he’d nearly overdosed on the plane all those months ago. Still, Sherlock had hoped he’d made it overwhelmingly clear that he was well and truly past the point of escapism via drugs. It made the culinary learning process all the more cumbersome for it.

* * *

Sherlock slipped into the flat with a barely audible sigh, taking off his coat and shedding with it the itchiness that socializing usually brought on. They’d learned proper knife etiquette and techniques. The knowledge wasn’t all that novel, considering the fact that Sherlock had done previous research into slicing methods for a case involving a rather hyperactive sous chef and a nosy _maître d_ ' _._ Still, he’d enjoyed the practical application of said techniques, just not the tedium that was making small-talk with his classmates. If he had to hear that one bint complaining about her _obviously_ adulterous husband one more time…

“Where have you been?”

Sherlock barely refrained from jumping in surprise, executing a controlled pivot to face John where the man was currently fussing about with the kettle. The waning, yellowy light of the evening cast him in eerie yet oddly flattering shadows.

“Out,” he replied tersely.

“What,” John asked with interest, “Leads for a case?” He pulled a mug down for Sherlock and mixed in the appropriate accompaniments before passing it along.

Sherlock offered him a murmured thanks. “Lestrade called earlier. Said there was something possibly in the works.”

He explained the scenario—a tentative seven—to John as they propped themselves up against the countertops, leisurely downing their tea as the night fell around them.

Just as they began to broach the subject of what to have for dinner, John reached over to turn on the light above the stovetop. He did a double-take down at Sherlock’s arm. At Sherlock’s confused glance, “You have… a leaf? On your hand.”

Sherlock looked down and brushed away the bit of chopped parsley that had clung to the side of his thumb from lessons before easily picking the conversation back up, suggesting, “We should try that new Lebanese place down by Gavin’s complex. What do you say?”

* * *

About a week later, they were learning about spices and herbs. A very intriguing subject indeed. He’d had to keep his mind from getting lost on various tangents regarding spices’ etymological meanings, their histories, their chemical properties as the teacher prattled on about the preferred type of cinnamon to bake with and how a homemade garam masala was not only rather simple to whip up but far superior to the tinned curry powder ( _obviously_ ).

He’d delighted in correcting the instructor when she’d claimed vanilla was a bean, though he’d reigned in his verbal dressing down when the instructor turned a rather unflattering shade of rouge that matched the Hungarian paprika they’d been passing around.

Their class had taken place in the afternoon since their class had fallen on some national holiday or other, so Sherlock had a few hours to kill before John was due home. He raided Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and tinkered with her spice cabinets, the woman delighting in watching Sherlock taking such an avid interest in something she was rather well-versed with.

They spent the afternoon debating the flavor profile and mineral content differences between the array of salts she kept on hand—he was absolutely delighted by the wood-smoked varieties she boasted. She promised him access to her cupboards when he got to the food preparation portion of the class, due to start tomorrow.

In anticipation for said class, Sherlock popped over to the shops to grab a broiler chicken or two to have on hand, along with some aromatics and, on a whim after recalling a simple roast recipe he’d picked up from an online recipe repository, a small sack of French fingerling potatoes.

It just so happened that his arrival back at the flat meant that he’d be riding in on John’s coattails, the man having arrived home approximately three—no, five ( _look at the state of his shirt-collar_ )—minutes prior. He grimaced as he tried to make his shopping bags a bit less obvious.

“What’s that, then?” John asked curiously.

“Experiment,” Sherlock replied gruffly. He didn’t know why he felt the need to be so secretive about his classes; all he knew was that he wanted to hone his talents a bit more before sharing his foray into the culinary realm with John.

“…Right,” John replied, voice dry. Sherlock winced, knowing he wasn’t fooling John. Of course the man knew when Sherlock was up to something; it was like a sixth sense of his.

“Well then—” John’s accusatory tone abruptly shifted into one of confusion once he got into Sherlock’s personal space. He inhaled deeply once, then twice. “…Why do you smell like Christmas biscuits?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I spent the afternoon with Hudders.” Best way to lie was to incorporate some semblance of the truth, after all. “Will that be all for now? Because I unfortunately don’t have time for your inquiries.”

John scoffed. “Nice to see you, too. And how was your day?” he retorted to Sherlock’s back before stalking off to his room upstairs, closing his door with a bit more force than usual. Sherlock winced, feeling the beginnings of guilt prickling at his conscience.

It wasn’t enough to convince him to admit what he was up to, but it compelled him to start his cooking experiment today instead of after his next class. He’d memorized the recipe, anyway.

He’d taken off his coat and suit jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, sufficiently disinfected his cooking station and his hands, and was in the midst of chopping up his mirepoix of carrots, celery, and onions when footfalls thundered down the stairs once more.

“I’m popping out,” John called out as he—Sherlock tilted his head, listening—shoved on his pair of date night loafers.

“Where are you going?” he asked with forced nonchalance, slowing down in his ministrations. He felt dread beginning to well up within himself.

“Out,” John replied tersely. Clearly not in a great mood today, then. He popped his head into the kitchen as he fastened a watch to his wrist. “Not sure when I’ll be back, but—” he froze, blinking at Sherlock in confusion. “What are you doing?” he asked slowly.

Sherlock shoved the cutting board away from himself, frowning when the knife wound up clattering down onto the floor, missing his foot by mere centimetres. “Well, nothing now.”

“No, you’re definitely… Wait a second, are you _cooking?_ ” John asked, shock clear as day in his voice.

“No. I’m not.” Sherlock insisted genuinely. There was no point in making a meal if John wasn’t even planning on being present for it, now was there? He rinsed his hands off and righted his shirtsleeves with a bit more force than necessarily, nearly tearing a button off in the process. “I suppose you’ll be home sometime tonight? I’ll leave the light on for you. Might have some leads to follow up on myself.”

(He didn’t, but John needn’t know that.)

“Sherlock, if you had something planned for us, then…” John trailed off, furrowing his brow. It appeared that even he didn’t know where he was going with that sentence.

Sherlock blinked. “Right. I’ll see you when you get back, then. Have a good time.”

He breezed past John, steadfastly ignoring the treacherous pounding of his heart at the thought of John going out on dates again. If things got too serious, Sherlock might have to drop his culinary escapades in order to subtly sabotage John’s dates again, much as he was beginning to enjoy his cooking ventures.

He could _hear_ the furrow forming in John’s brow as the man muttered, “But why would I…?” Sherlock ignored his nattering, opting to play something on the violin until John left.

Frustrated sigh, slipping on coat, sedate walking down the steps. Opening of the front door, pause, and then it gently being closed. Footsteps fading out of recognition.

Sherlock stood frozen with his violin propped in position for nearly forty-five minutes when the door opened up once more. He came back to himself after exiting the kitchen of his Mind Palace, having gotten lost in musings regarding oil contents of certain spices, frowning as John arrived back into the flat.

“I thought you went out,” he accused, not setting his violin down.

“…To get some milk. You berk,” John added quietly, as if an afterthought. It rang out with a level of fondness.

Sherlock felt even more confused. “But—your shoes,” he said rather helplessly, pointing his bow down at said loafers.

John shrugged. “What about my shoes? Got something to drink as well,” he added, gesturing towards Sherlock with a bottle of white wine.

“They’re your date night shoes.” He insisted. This didn’t fit in with his previous observations. Surely John couldn’t have changed that much since before the whole Moriarty mess the first time around?

John did a double-take down at his shoes, which had taken to looking rather innocuous for footwear, the devils. “Well, that’s news to me.” he looked back up at Sherlock, calm as can be. “I’ll just put this in the fridge to chill a bit, shall I?”

Sherlock found himself gravitating towards John, setting his violin back into its case with care before following the other man into the kitchen. He watched as the pitcher of milk and bottle of pinot noir were summarily placed into their refrigerator, John not even pausing to gaze at the newest occupants of their chiller in his carefully executed actions. (All body parts delegated to a mini-fridge in his bedroom; all surfaces sanitized for various fruits, veg, herbs, and—in the crisper—rhizomes.)

 “Need help with anything?” John asked as he straightened back up to his full height, giving Sherlock that same patient, waiting look as when they were on a case.

“I—no, I should be alright.” Sherlock fumbled, blinking as John sniffed, nodded decisively, and smiled at Sherlock as he walked back to the sitting room. He watched as John grabbed for the paper and folded into his chair before shaking himself back to awareness.

Right. Dinner.

He went over the recipe once more as he washed his hands and rolled his sleeves up again, nodding to himself as he added a few shortcuts to save on preparation and cooking time.

Before long, the mirepoix was prepared and carefully stuffed into the chicken, which itself was also prepared according to the instructions (with the addition of the Hungarian paprika he’d filched from class, for subtle smokiness and browning), and it was set to roast in the oven.

The chicken required a bit of tending to, but he did this around preparing the potatoes and a quick spinach salad.

During one of his checks on the chicken, he heard John’s voice ring out. “What was that?” he asked.

“Where did you put my notebook?” John repeated with slight (fond) exasperation. “I hope you haven’t gone and used it in another experiment. I need it to write down that case from last Monday!”

“Mantle,” he replies tersely, still focused on the task at hand. Honestly, why would he be so tedious as to make the same mistake of tampering with John’s things for science if it meant having John raving at him like a lunatic?

“What’s this?” John asked after a moment, his voice closer.

Sherlock turned towards the doorway as he toweled his hands dry, freezing when he realized John had Sherlock’s… _personal_ notebook in hand. “That’s not your notebook,” he said rather uselessly.

“Are these…” John flipped to another page and blinked a few times. “Is this a recipe book? Wait, why is my name written here? Hey!” he cried as Sherlock snatched the notebook away.

“I’d appreciate some semblance of privacy, if you don’t mind.” He was aiming for derisive, but he knew he was coming up short with the way his cheeks flushed in mortification and his voice cracked.

“Hey, it’s all fine,” John insisted, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I didn’t mean to shove my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“…It’s alright.” Sherlock grumped. He paused for a moment before offering the book back to John. The damage was done, after all. “Put it back? You can look if you’d like,” he added.

Dinner came together fairly quickly after that, and soon Sherlock had a beautifully golden bird sitting at the kitchen table that John had made up. Just as he began wracking his mind for the proper way to carve a chicken, John playfully bumped hips with him. “You did all the hard work, I can handle the carving and serving. Don’t want these surgeon’s hands getting lazy now, do we?” he joked.

Sherlock snorted and watched with surprise as John sliced into the chicken with perfect, precise movements. “You’re quite good at that,” he blurted out.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” John giggled a bit, that genuine, high-pitched laugh that had endeared John to Sherlock from day one. “I do know some rather useless domestic bits, like mending the drapes and things. You like dark meat, right?” he asked, even as he held a neatly severed and crisp thigh out with the carving fork and knife.

Sherlock nodded, wordlessly holding up his plate. He spooned some of the potatoes onto their plates as well, setting the dressed and waiting salad off to the side with two small bowls and separate forks.

Before long, they were seated across from one another and digging into their meal.

“Holy—“ John exclaims as soon as the first bite reaches his mouth.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherlock demanded, concerned. Too much salt? Was the lemon juice too acidic? He _knew_ he should have—

“Sherlock, this is _amazing,_ ” John declared through his mouthful, foregoing basic rules of dining etiquette. He closed his eyes and let out a moan that really shouldn’t have had the brain-melting effect that it did.

“Oh. Well.” Sherlock swallowed, sitting back down in his seat. “Good.” He picked his utensils back up and dug into his own meal, satisfied with the results. (Though the potatoes could have used a bit more crisping, and rosemary would have been a nice addition to the bird as well. The dressing on the salad was far too simple, needed a stronger acidity to bite through the unctuousness of the meal itself…)

His thought processes were interrupted as John offered him a refill of wine. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking his glass back and dutifully ignoring the way his skin jumped at the feel of their fingers grazing.

“Why did you never tell me you could cook?” John demanded, grinning at Sherlock over their shared food. “You’ve been holding out on me all these years.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Didn’t… want to tell me, or—“

“I didn’t cook. Before,” he added at John’s confused look. “Ever.”

“So you’re telling me…” John said slowly, “That you’ve never cooked a day in your life, until today?”

Sherlock nodded, nibbling at another potato.

“How are you so amazing?” John asked.

Sherlock felt his face flush. “That’s a rhetorical question, I imagine,” he stated unnecessarily.

John snickered, shaking his head at Sherlock with amusement dancing in his expressive eyes. “You’re something else, Sherlock Holmes. So,” he continued, spearing a carrot onto his fork, “What made you start cooking, then?”

Sherlock took a deep breath in. He could do this, he didn’t have to tell John the truth. A case. A social experiment. Anything besides—“I’ve signed up for cooking classes at the library,” he confessed.

Well. There went that.

John was blinking owlishly at him now, and Sherlock felt completely ridiculous. “You. You’re taking cooking classes. Really? Why?”

“Just… something to do?” Sherlock asked tentatively. He wasn’t all that sure himself anymore, honestly.

John just stared at him in silence, raising one eyebrow. Of course he knew that wasn’t the full of it; John always knew when he was fibbing.

“I know I don’t really do much around here,” Sherlock admitted at long last, looking down at his picked-at plate. “It’s just… this isn’t really my area. Household things. I nearly set fire to a sewing machine in home economics before I found this class.” He smiled at the giggling fit that confession garnered before sobering a bit. “I know things are—different now, considering… And I know she would cook for you, and I just—” he stuttered to a stop, still holding a staring contest with his chicken.

He didn’t know what to do or say without sounding like a moron, because he wasn’t completely well-versed in social cues, but telling your flatmate that you wanted to cook for them to keep them from leaving you… well, you just didn’t, did you?

“Hey.” John’s voice was soft, as was the hand that now rested on Sherlock’s arm. The man himself was out of his seat, crouched by Sherlock’s side as he tried to meet his lowered gaze. “I told you before, I’m happy here, I’m glad to be back.” He paused. “And as for Mary… do you know what that woman would do? She’d mostly serve those ready-prep meals from the supermarket, or takeaway, and call them hers.” He snickered. “The most she could cook without burning the house down was pasta.

“But this,” John announced, gesturing at the meal, them, the entire flat, “This is… real. This is all I ever needed, Sherlock. Just you. Whether that’s counting your hidden culinary prowess or not, I don’t mind. This is all I need,” he repeated, squeezing Sherlock’s forearm for emphasis.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed after a moment. He slowly looked back at John, eyes wide. “You mean…”

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ with a faint smile, that hand rubbing circles into Sherlock’s skin now.

“I’m not—“ Sherlock paused, searching for the right words. It wouldn’t do to bollocks it all up, now that they’d gotten to this point at long last. After a beat: “I find myself divorced from my work.”

“And I’m similarly available,” John returned with a cheeky grin. “So what do you say we give this a proper go this time around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock whispered, a smile lighting his features up. “Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few relevant links...  
> [Here](https://www.seasalt.com/ultimate-gourmet-salt-collection.html?gclid=CjwKEAjwps2_BRC5jduHor-h8xESJADGT-LtNTolIcfNSme7G770mbcyoxcouakjUZHXYg4xp9xD4BoCFlnw_wcB#183=776) is a sample salt collection I imagine Hudders might have in her pantry, though I myself like to get my fancy-schmancy salts like [this](https://www.myspicesage.com/hickory-smoked-sea-salt-p-145.html) Hickory Smoked Sea Salt from _The Spice Sage._ I don't know if they ship internationally (i.e., to the UK) so who knows if Mrs. Hudson could have this brand! (Note: It's delicious as a finisher on a nicely seared steak. Yum!)  
> [This](http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/julias-favorite-roast-chicken) is the roast chicken recipe I imagine Sherlock would have referred to in his first go at cooking. It's a Julia Child classic, and looks delicious.
> 
> Let me know how you liked this one! I'm working on getting all caught up with my challenge deadline, so please keep an eye out for multiple updates!


	12. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Psychic Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12: AU.
> 
> Dr. John H. Watson is a man of sound logic. He believes in what he can see, in what science and reason can explain, in what can be categorized and rationalized in a neat, sensible manner. Poltergeists? Witches? Faerie-folk, goblins, ghouls? All things that firmly belong in the land of make-believe.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes is a rather fantastic being himself, for reasons including but not limited to his status as the world's premiere consulting psychic detective.
> 
> Content Warning: AU, fantasy/horror/supernatural elements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been one of the prompts that I've been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading! This day's prompt is "AU", and as such, I wanted to use it as an opportunity to "pilot" one of the pesky plot bunnies that have been nagging at me for months now, to kind of see what reception it receives. Nothing too spoiler-y, in terms of what kind of plot I'm envisioning. It's more backstory than anything else, a glimpse into an alternate universe. :P
> 
> Please let me know what you thought and how engaging the story line/narrative style was!

Dr. John H. Watson is a man of sound logic. He believes in what he can see, in what science and reason can explain, in what can be categorized and rationalized in a neat, sensible manner. Poltergeists? Witches? Faerie-folk, goblins, ghouls? All things that firmly belong in the land of make-believe.

Sherlock Holmes is a rather fantastic being himself, for reasons including but not limited to his status as the world's premiere consulting psychic detective.

John had known nothing about the supernatural qualities of the man in question when he’d first met him on that fateful day in Bart’s; he’d only caught a glimpse of how truly gifted and unique Sherlock was when the man had up and practically read his biography from his stance, his suntan, and his mobile phone.

There was the odd comment from Lestrade about what Sherlock could “read” or “scry” from the scene, or what the woman was “telling” him, but John had chalked it up to that brilliant penchant for deduction Sherlock had going for him.

The way Sally and Anderson steered clear of him and called him “freak” with genuine discomfort set John’s teeth on edge, but only because he felt offended on Sherlock’s behalf. The man was doing both their jobs all at once, and exceeding expectations besides! It would behoove the pair, he thought, to show some proper respect and a modicum of gratitude for the work Sherlock was doing for law enforcement.

John was still fairly clueless as to the extent of Sherlock’s brilliance up until Moriarty became an issue. The man definitely had an otherworldly air about him, the waxing-poetic writer within John could appreciate that. But he wrote him off as little more than a sociopath hell-bent on getting under Sherlock’s skin.

John knew nothing of how Sherlock had the ability to “tap into” wavelengths beyond average human perception, how he could literally hear the recounting of crimes from the victims themselves, as if they were still living and breathing right before his eyes.

John was completely unaware of just how unbelievable Sherlock Holmes really was, how he’d had a rather pitiful childhood hopping to and from various psych wards, hospitals, and laboratories for observations and testings and more, how he’d been drugged for far longer than he’d been shooting cocaine into his electrified veins, how he’d only recently (and reluctantly) begun perceiving his lot in life as a _gift_ when he’d managed to save Mrs. Hudson from the same sorry fate as one of her flapper girlfriends who’d gotten too friendly with _Mr._ Hudson and happened to tell Sherlock after they’d been hacked into pieces and tossed into a Floridian swamp as gator chow, how…

How much he’d come to rely upon John, John who _kept him right_ and somehow managed to quiet all of the extra-perceptions of his abnormal mind, John who was his conductor of light when he got too caught up in the realm of the dead, John who was kind and genuinely impressed and stood by him.

John would never know the full extent of Sherlock’s uncanny abilities until Moriarty, and like the tipping of the scales, like the buildup to the climax of a story line, everything would be cast in stark relief. Sherlock Holmes, consulting psychic detective, would find in Dr. John H. Watson, formerly Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, not only a friend and partner, but a benevolent skeptic and firm believer.

But right now, propped up against garish wallpaper and breathless with adrenaline-fueled laughter, all John and Sherlock were aware of was just how much space existed in the vacuum between their hands, their two wound-too-tight bodies and just how much they needed this, even if they never fully understood or pinned down what _this_ was.

You didn’t need to fully understand something in order to believe in it, after all.


	13. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13: Animals.
> 
>  
> 
> _It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right._
> 
>  
> 
> Content Warning: human pet play (mostly ideation with a brief acting-out in the end) and D/s elements/negotations. Note that there are **no** explicit sex scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by Nine Inch Nails' [Closer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccY25Cb3im0), which does have a snippet of lyrics that hearken back to the day's prompt. ;) (Warning for explicit lyrics!)
> 
> This wasn't where I was expecting to go with this prompt... at all! And it isn't a perfect fulfillment of the prompt "animals", but one thing led to another and intrigue led me to contemplating pet play--human, not specifically _animal_ play. And... well, here we are!
> 
> Inspiration stemmed from [this](http://www.submissiveguide.com/2010/09/a-human-pet/) guest post on the Submissive Guide. All executions and interpretations of both this form of pet play and Sherlock's voice/stream of consciousness are my own. I tried out a writing style that's a bit of a departure from the usual, because that's how it came out when I was writing this and I wanted to preserve the organic quality of this chapter without over-editing it. (I'm also overtired, which might have something to do with my all-over-the-place writing style...)
> 
> I did my utmost to treat the subject matter and preference at hand with the respect it deserves, and I apologize for any inaccuracies or oversights; they are all my own. Feel free to comment with constructive feedback if I missed something! You can even ask for my email, if you'd rather keep the convo between us. That's okay, too!
> 
> Simply put, I know this might not be everyone's cup of tea, and I respect that. Feel free to skip over this chapter. :) If you're interested in reading on, however, I do hope you enjoy!
> 
> xx Choice

While Sherlock reveled in his obviously superior intellect, his near-superhuman ability to use deductive reasoning to understand the world around him, sometimes he felt overwhelmed by the world around him, by his own prowess.

Sometimes, he needed to feel _controlled,_ not _in control._

No one had ever seemed to understand the concept—neither his family nor his acquaintances nor his brief dalliances over the years. And then… Enter John Watson.

Sherlock had initially read _former military_ and _doctor_ and _frustrated younger brother_ , but what he hadn’t been aware of, deep within the flesh and sinew, embedded all the way down into the man’s very marrow, was how absolutely perfect John Watson would be for Sherlock Holmes.

At first, it meant having a flatmate whose complaints about the thumbs in the crisper remained fairly minimal and therefore tolerable. It meant having a friend who didn’t just overlook his apparent peculiarities, but liked Sherlock _because_ of them. It meant having a partner to work alongside, to bounce ideas off of, to rely upon, and celebrate and/or commiserate with at the end of yet another case closed and mystery solved.

But then, the part of him he constantly struggled to keep at bay began to see the true potential of John Watson, and no matter how much he fought to quell his baser needs, Sherlock could feel himself slipping down a slippery, dangerous slope.

It started innocently enough:

  * Occasionally, during quiet evenings in, opting for the floor beside and/or in front of John’s armchair whilst said human occupied said piece of furniture, relishing in the physical hierarchy of their bodily comportment—John, above him; Sherlock, inherently lower.
  * Literally going for days on end without speaking unless John demanded a response from him, experiencing an odd thrill at the fanciful notion of limited speaking ability, as if he didn’t need to be _great_ and _brilliant_ and all of those extraneous things that sometimes buzzed about in his overworked brain.
  * At his lowest, most vulnerable moments, succumbing to John’s demands for him to “straighten that mess up,” or “do the bleeding dishes before the plates grow legs and walk out the flat,” or “make us tea for once, yeah? It’s been a long day, Sherlock.”



Then he started having torturous dreams about it:

_little or no clothes: no barriers no material status no wealth_

_sturdy collar of quality material: inky-black leather—no, silk the color of a deep, bruised plum—no, crushed velvet, tempered steel chains, hemp—no,_ whatever John decides.

_hand fed, fingers petting along his suprasternal notch traveling down the obedient curl of his spine, being brushed and coddled_

_performing, treats, praise_

Sherlock didn’t realize how obvious he was being until John finally sat him down for a Talk, a near-train wreck of an interaction that went along the lines of:

  * Possible health issue? (“No, John, surely you can see I’m physically well, given your profession and degree.”)
  * Possible _mental_ health issue? (“Should I feel insulted? Because I do.”)
  * Possible past trauma? (“Seriously. Insulted. Stop talking.”)
  * Bad relationships in the past? (“John. Not that this is relevant to the conversation _at all_ , but I am a, a virgin, and b, have been largely uninterested in monogamous relationships for the majority of my life.”)
  * Worried that their arrangement is temporary? (“I’d like to think we have something pretty decent going for us, no? You keep everything in order and make the tea, I bring in The Work and keep you on your toes. Sometimes with literal toes that aren’t attached to either of our feet.”)
  * …Interested in something beyond their friendship? (“If I respond to this line of inquiry the truth, will you kindly refrain from having some kind of a sexuality crisis, at least within my presence? Yes, I know you’re not gay and I—oh. Not gay, but… not straight. Right. It’s always something.”)



“So… you would be open to the discussion of a sexual and/or romantic relationship with me? I apologize for the misunderstandings, but I am, in fact, interested.” John gazed at him with sincerity clear in his azure eyes.

“I… would. But John… there’s something you must know—well,” Sherlock paused, “You don’t _have_ to really know about this; I’ve done a fair job of keeping it under wraps for the majority of my life once I came to terms with it myself, and it’s really not something I go around advertising, although—“

“Sherlock.” He stuttered to a halt at the steel lining that voice, that word, that _command_ that compelled him to _Stop. Listen. Follow._ John’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Hey, listen to me, yeah? If we’re doing this—which, for the record, I hope we are—we do this all the way. No secrets, no hiding, no withholding and distancing ourselves from one another. Alone is not what protects you: _I will._ ”

Sherlock physically shuddered at that, the utter conviction ringing true in John’s voice and sending electric currents of _desire_ straight through his very heartstrings. John’s pupils expanded ever so visibly at the sight.

“Now please… _Speak._ ”

 _Ohgodohgodoh_ —

How could he have deduced Captain Watson and not immediately realized just how perfectly the man fit the role he’d kept vacant for so long?

Sherlock felt his deepest needs burbling past his crumbling defenses, his most heartfelt, most humiliating desires, his wish to be _less than_ and _kept_ and _owned_ , no better than an animal, a human pet, all of that coming to light, and it’s alright if it’s too much to handle, it doesn’t have to be like that if—

“No, no. Sherlock.” John’s voice soothed his frayed nerves, right alongside the careful, tender strokes of John’s hand against Sherlock’s bent neck. “Sherlock, this is nothing to be ashamed of. Alright? It’s nothing that we can’t explore together. Have a little faith in me, yeah?” he teased lightly.

“How are you…” he swallowed, risking a glance upwards. “How can you say these things and genuinely mean them?”

“Because I love you,” John said simply. “And because maybe I want to own you, want to be responsible for caring for you. Maybe now that you’ve said all these things, I can’t get the image of you at my feet, wearing my collar and strung up to my leash out of my head.”

“John…” his speech was little more than exhaled breath at this point; everything felt like it was losing permanence, melting into puddles and blobs like a Dali painting. The only things keeping him tethered at this point were the hand gripping his nape and the baritone resonance of John’s voice.

“Come here,” John encouraged after a moment, leaning back and pulling away from Sherlock in order to pat his lap a few times. Sherlock scrambled to comply, folding himself into John’s lap like an overgrown cat and basking in the sheer _rightness_ of succumbing to John’s commands, of being plaint under the man’s loving touch.

“We need to have a conversation about boundaries—what sorts of things you’re interested in or not, hard and soft limits, how scenes should be structured, and the like.”

“Mmm.”

“And this can be a part of our relationship, but we can also have intimacy outside of these roles. I don’t always want to be your Master—” _full-body shudder, quiet hum of satisfaction, a particularly loving caress of John’s hand along his thigh_ “—but it’s a role I’ll admit I’m quite looking forward to.

“Does this sound acceptable to you, Sherlock?” An expectant pause, a quiet huff of amusement. “Sherlock, I’d appreciate it if you’d answer when spoken to.”

“Yes, John,” he murmured. “But please, for now… _more?_ ” He curled his body into John’s lap, up against his cupped palm in wait of more loving pets and cuddles. “Please.”

“Of course,” John replied, voice dangerously (endearingly) close to a coo. “My good boy.”


	14. Brewed Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14: Comfort.
> 
> For once, Sherlock took something purely at face value. He had thought nothing of the innocuous, unlabeled tea blend sitting innocently in their pantry. _One of John's tea-tasting adventures, a fanciful purchase from Hudders,_ he hypothesized to himself as he steeped the leaves, added his usual amount of sugar, and imbibed nearly half of his mug.
> 
> Content Warning: inadvertent drug consumption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22636.html?thread=133370476#t133370476): "Moriarty has a chemical that causes whomever ingests it to experience extreme mood swings. He manages to slip it into Sherlock's tea unnoticed. Within hours, Sherlock is feeling emotions like he normally would had he been unable to hide behind his "sociopath" persona. John is freaked out by this, but goes with it."
> 
>  **[slendersummerse](http://slendersummerse.livejournal.com/profile)** (original prompter) also requested Johnlock and Mystrade, if at all possible, which is why I will be doing a quick follow-up on this in the next chapter. Hope you like it, **slendersummerse**! ♥
> 
> Read, review, enjoy! :)
> 
> xx Choice (Lyss)

It was mid-afternoon, no more than three o’clock, but Sherlock’s perception (compromised as it was) of time made it feel like more like the midnight hours after a particularly harrowing, days-long case. He wanted nothing more than to shut his entire body down, just pull a plug or flick a switch to turn all though processes _off._

He rarely, if ever, wished to silence his mind, which was how he could tell things were dire indeed. It felt as though his state of being was controlled by a hyperactive, never-ending game of Russian roulette—it started out with a giggling fit, which then gradually mounted into something vaguely resembling mania before sharpening into anger and… it went on.

He only had himself to blame for his current predicament. For once, Sherlock had taken something purely at face value. He had thought nothing of the innocuous, unlabeled tea blend sitting innocently in their pantry. _One of John's tea-tasting adventures, or perhaps a fanciful purchase from Hudders_ , he had hypothesized to himself as he steeped the leaves. He methodically added his usual amount of sugar and imbibed a good percentage of the brew. Within an hour of consumption, the strange loss of control began encroaching upon his usually stalwart emotional facilities.

It was a quiet weekday in: there was no case on, John didn’t have a clinic shift until two days hence, and from the faint aromas wafting up from downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was in the midst of her pre-hols baking test runs and—he sniffed—fruitcake preparation.

Gods, but he hated fruitcake. Still, the heady smells of ginger, candied citron, and rum went straight through his olfactory senses and brought to mind childhood memories of his late _grand-mère_ who would always begin making dozens of the blasted things towards the beginning of October, enough to mete out to all of the rather impressive Holmes clan. She had always insisted on trying to “fatten him up” whenever he visited her quaint countryside chalet, which frustrated him to no end, but she had such a genuinely gentle and caring air about her that it was hard to get heated over having yet another bonbon shoved into your unsuspecting gob.

That, and she had a gorgeous backyard garden, replete with herbs and pea stalks and a tidy row of white-washed hives, bustling and buzzing with life like the London streets that would always feel like home to him, even in his youth.

Closing his eyes and retreating to those past memories, Sherlock could nearly smell her powdery, floral scent as she swung him up into her arms…

“Sherlock…” John’s voice—oddly awed—had an awkward ring to it. “What’s… are you… _crying?_ ”

Instantaneously, he opened his eyes and was dumbfounded to discover that yes, there were indeed tears beginning to fall from his eyes. Wordlessly, he ran a careful digit under one eyelid to collect the moisture there, pulling his index finger back to glare accusingly at the bead of a tear dangling from his fingertip.

“I’m crying. Why am I crying?” Sherlock demanded tremulously. He threw an accusing glare at John. “Are there any airborne irritants to blame?” Though that wouldn’t explain the disquieting sense of grief shrouding his person like dark funereal garb.

“…No.” John was still staring at him like he’d grown two heads. “Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?”

He didn’t deign to respond, retreating into himself as he slowly, subconsciously, curled his long, gangly limbs up into a ball on the sofa.

After a long moment, inspiration hit: “John. The tea. Bring me the tea.”

“Wha—“

“The tea, the canister that’s out on the countertop,” he sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” John placated, shooting up from his armchair to rush into the kitchen. “Oh. You found that one.”

“What do you mean, _that_ tea, John?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

“It’s just that… well,” John came back in bearing the canister before him like a peace offering, his face uncomfortable. “When you—fell… Whenever I managed to make it back home, this was waiting on the counter. With a note—I threw it away since then, but it was for you.”

He felt frozen under the waves of despair bombarding him. “What… what did it say, John?” The man in question shifted uncomfortably. “ _John._ ”

“It said…” he huffed out a sigh, running one hand through his hair. “I don’t know, but I think you were meant to see it… before. I think. He meant it as a—a parting gift, of sorts, I guess.”

“He, as in…”

“Moriarty.” John coughed. “Yeah.”

The room seemed to grow chilled with the merest intonation of that snake’s name, as if they’d evoked a demon. Sherlock felt the prickling beginnings of anger stirring and churning in his stomach. “…I think the tea’s been tampered with.”

“What d’you mean, like… something was added to it?” John asked apprehensively.

“ _Obviously,_ ” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. He clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. “That’s the only bloody explanation I have for…” he waved one hand down at himself in an abrupt, dismissive gesture. “ _This._ ”

“Well there’s no need to get all pissy about it,” John snapped, glaring at him. He shook the canister at Sherlock. “How was I supposed to know this was some kind of… dastardly, spiked tea?”

“Any fool could deduce that Moriarty would never gift me with something as _nice_ as a specialty tea blend from a private plantation!” he snapped, before blinking in surprise. “God. Why do I feel so furious, there is no logical explanation why that _fucker_ should elicit such extreme emotion in me…”

“Don’t know, he manages to piss me off just fine,” John muttered.

“Because you’re an _idiot_ , and—oh, come on, I always tell you—“

“Everyone’s an idiot,” John mocked with an uppity, posh accent, synchronized with Sherlock’s own accusatory, baritone voice. “So what was added to your tea, you git?”

“Well, if you would let me finish a bloody sentence without tossing about your _witty_ remarks,” Sherlock scoffed, returning John’s glare. “Something that inhibits my sociopathy, that elicits extreme mood swings because right now I’m—“ he stopped, shoving his hands across his mouth to muffle himself. He gave a few choking noises.

“What in the _soddering, buggering hell_ are you _doing?_ ” John was aghast, and Sherlock couldn’t refrain from snickering at the look on the man’s face.

“You’re always so amusing,” Sherlock confessed when he could no longer keep himself from chuckling. “Giggling at crime scenes, morbid sense of humor, it’s perfect!”

John was blinking rather owlishly at him now, only making Sherlock giggle even more.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, gaping at Sherlock. “You’ve gone mad. You’re well and truly mad. Does this… tea thing have an expiration date?”

“I’m not sure, I can’t imagine its potency hasn’t been compromised in the years since that slimy git’s been around.” Sherlock paused for another snickering fit. “Gods, did you ever notice how… _bulgy_ his eyes were? Reminded me of one of those ruddy goldfish, you know the ones…” he gesticulated with his fingers stuck out in front of his eyes, wriggling them around as he devolved into giggles.

John snorted. “Good lord, seeing you like this is beyond surreal,” he admitted. “I’d love to write _this_ up in the blog.”

“Wonder what you’d call it,” Sherlock grinned.

A beat, and then: “’Brewed Awakening’?”

Sherlock burst out laughing. “You’re h-ho-horrible,” he hiccupped between chortles.

“Or no, wait—“ John was giggling now, too, taking a seat beside Sherlock on the couch. “How about ‘A Mad Tea Party’?”

“Stooop,” he cried, shaking his head back and forth as he laughed some more. “See, I don't even know the pop culture you're so clearly referencing and yet it's still so funny! I can’t breathe…”

Sherlock couldn’t stop the hysterics from enveloping him, and John—precious, hilarious John—wasn’t helping. Thankfully he was reduced to breathless titters as he shivered. He wished there was a way to put an end to this torture.

“Gods,” he breathed, “This _sucks_.”

A hand landed in his hair. “Are you okay?” John asked in concern. Sherlock felt his blood spike at the warmth radiating from John’s palm all the way through to his skull.

“P-peachy,” he snorted. “Just peachy.”

The hand began petting him, and Sherlock felt his manic giggling abruptly cut off into a rather loud moan. He slapped a hand over his mouth again, and gods, he probably looked like an ugly, overripe tomato right now with how intensely and suddenly he was blushing.

 _A tomato, ripe enough for a taste,_ his treacherous mind whispered coquettishly. _I wonder if John would_ —

“Holy fuck,” he breathed before abruptly crawling away from John, toppling over the arm of the couch and onto the floor in the process. He barely registered the faint pain radiating from his coccyx, overwhelmed by the radiating waves of arousal coursing through his system and making his hips squirm in a few aborted thrusts.

“Sherlock…” John peered over the edge of the sofa to gaze down at him in baffled concern. “ _Now_ what’s going on?”

“Fuck,” he repeated in a choked voice, wrenching his eyes shut. And good _lord_ , poor choice of words, now he was  _thinking about John like that,_ John beneath him, beneath his tongue and his fingertips and... “Maybe you should go—but I don’t want you to go,” he whined.

“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” John insisted quickly, “Even if you _are_ scaring me right now. Now,” he continued briskly, employing his doctor’s tone of voice, “How are you feeling?”

“Mm, wishing we could practice some internal medi— _oh my god I am not finishing that sentence I can’t this is too much John you have to go._ ”

John was flushed red too, but he looked torn between confusion, shock, and amusement. “Well, that sure as hell isn’t an EpiPen in your trousers, so you _must_ be happy to see me,” he drawled.

“John,” Sherlock whined, struggling to quell the uncontrollable desire to launch himself at his friend. His brain was of no help, flashing mental recollections of all of the snatches of bare skin he’d ever glimpsed in passing during their years of cohabitation and _Jesus_ , why was he able to recall all of this so easily?!

“You’re alright…” John slowly crawled onto the floor to sit beside him. “Listen’ it’s all fine, okay? I know you’re not in control of yourself right now, it’s alright.”

He couldn’t refrain from immediately crowding John up against the side of the couch, lunging in for a— _oh god_ —a kiss that John neatly deflected with a turn of his head. Sherlock nearly face-planted into the couch before correcting his path and nuzzling into the enticing curve of John’s trapezius, suctioning his lips against a hammering carotid artery with a happy sigh.

John gasped and shot his hand out, pushing Sherlock away. “Hey! Stop that,” he yelped.

“But you seem to enjoy it whenever your girlfriends employ that,” Sherlock pouted. “It’s an erogenous zone of yours and _how do I know these things, why do I have this catalogued in my brain._ ”

“You tell me.” John was giving him an appraising stare now, looking him up and down. “So this is you in a state of arousal, huh? Interesting,” he mused.

“What’s interesting about it?” Sherlock purred, winding himself around John now.

“Didn’t know you were into those baser human instincts is all.”

“’m usually not,’ he muttered, attempting to latch himself onto John’s neck once more, only to be held at bay by the hand fisting his hair. He moaned again. “Gods, and apparently I have a hair… _fixation_.”

“What do you— _oh_ ,” John said, skittering his nails along Sherlock’s scalp, eliciting purrs in their wake. “You like… this.” He gave an experimental tug-and-scratch.

“Mmmyes,” Sherlock moaned. He nuzzled into John’s touch like a giant cat. “Don’t stop.”

“Is it helping?” John asked, snorting as Sherlock inadvertently butted the crown of his head up against his jaw. Sherlock, incapable of anything resembling speech, merely hummed deep in his throat, gurgling out something vaguely like “Mmloveyou,” mind languid and thick as… honey.

Honey, which, again, evoked memories of his late, bee-keeping grandmother, but this time instead of ruminating upon her memory, he rode the slightly-less-alien currents of sorrow to thoughts of his time spent away from John. He absently curled closer to his friend, fisting one hand into the soft, comforting material of the man’s jumper.

They sat in silence for a time, propped against the couch and cuddled together. Feeling the warmth radiating from John’s body, the combined smells of their laundry detergent, tea, and something so uniquely _John Watson,_ Sherlock felt unaccountably overcome with anxiety at the thought of having ever lost _this_.

“Sherlock, deep breath for me, yeah?” John instructed calmly, still stroking his hand through Sherlock’s hair. It wasn’t until he was well and truly hyperventilating that he realized he had worked himself into quite a sorry state.

“In,” John commanded, more Captain than doctor as he modeled a deep inhalation that Sherlock struggled to mimic. “…and out. In…”

They proceeded like this for a few repetitions before Sherlock burst into tears.

“Hey,” John asked softly. “What’s wrong? It’s alright. I’ve got you, you’re alright.”

“I missed you,” Sherlock wailed. _Like a toddler!_ He thought frantically. _God, please, please stop. I’ll volunteer at the senior center, knit a better sweater for John, refrain from insulting Donovan, anything!_

John sounded like he was struggling to keep in a small chuckle. “I’m right here, I haven’t gone anywhere, daft man,” he said fondly.

“Not now—before,” Sherlock cried. He felt John’s grip on him tighten. “I missed you so much—what if I never saw you again?” he burrowed deeper into John’s embrace, practically sitting on the man’s lap now.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” he said softly. “It’s over now, remember? You made it back home to me, and everything’s alright.”

“You still have nightmares about it,” Sherlock confessed. “I know you do, I hear you sometimes, I just don’t want to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable. I’m so, so sorry I had to leave you, John,” he snuffled, beginning to get congested.

John shifted uncomfortably, sniffing a bit like he did whenever he was struggling to keep his emotions under wraps, very British. “I’ve long since forgiven you for it. You did it because there was no other way, I know.”

“It was so _terrifying_ ,” Sherlock admitted to John, feeling the tears still running. “I still remember this one bunker somewhere in-in Czechoslovakia, and this man, this man who found out who I was and would tell me they g-got you while he would keep me teetering, just _stuck_ between consciousness and passing out while he beat me and—god,” he whimpered, feeling well and truly wrung out. “I have never been more relieved that a person was dead than when I finally managed to get him.”

He heard John reflexively swallow, his breathing shallow. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that, Sherlock,” he said, voice gravelly.

“I would do it all again if it meant keeping you all safe.” His voice, though reedy, rang with conviction. He then felt like a balloon rapidly deflating as he was ensconced in a cold sweat. “Oh god, I don’t feel so…”

“You’re alright,” John insisted, shooting out to grab a nearby umbrella basket—handy, that—to put in front of Sherlock before he lost the contents of his stomach.

He heaved up what felt like straight bile, his esophagus on fire as he gagged.

After a few blissfully vomit-free minutes passed, John tentatively asked, “Feeling better, then?”

“Much,” he wheezed through his clogged nose and burning throat. He latched onto the napkin that was passed his way, mopping his mouth up and blowing his nose. “Jesus Christ, I can’t handle these blasted emotion things,” he spat with disgust. “I have never been more thankful for my sociopath diagnosis.”

“You’re no sociopath, you git,” John inserted warmly. “You just put up a good show is all.”

“Whatever you say. I’m going to have a wash,” Sherlock muttered. “Rid myself of this upheaval.” He flailed with the desecrated umbrella stand for a moment before John got up, knees cracking, taking the pail with a grimace.

“This is being binned, I don’t care how Mrs. Hudson fusses. Why do we even own one of these?” he asked, confounded. After a moment, he offered a hand down to Sherlock, who took it with a small, grateful smile.

“I’ll order something in while you shower. You know,” John said, “For once, your penchant for starving yourself might have saved you another few hours of psychological agony. Can’t imagine drinking that stuff,” he nodded over at the deceptively innocent-looking container of tea, “on an empty stomach is good, but it worked its way out of your system faster for it, I’m sure.”

“Thank god for that,” Sherlock scoffed. They shared a grin before his grew softer, fonder. “…Thank you, John. For… well.” He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, flushing at the memory of John’s hands petting through these selfsame locks.

John watched him with a mischievous light in his eyes that took Sherlock by surprise. “No thanks necessary. What are personal doctors for, eh?” he winked, only to start laughing as a rapidly-blinking Sherlock made his hasty exit to the washroom.

Sherlock promptly shut and locked the door to the loo, leaning against it with a shaky sigh. _Fucking Moriarty,_ he thought tiredly. He quickly set about getting the shower to temperature and meticulously removing his clothing as he went over what had just transpired. _So_ much to embarrass himself and fuss over.

…Though, on second thought, maybe he had reason to hate the vile creature slightly less than he did, he mused. He recalled John’s reaction to Sherlock’s state of arousal—more specifically, the _definitely-not-an-epinephrine-auto-injector_ Sherlock had felt in the man’s trousers during their… _cuddle session_.

He blushed anew and shoved his face under the shower spray until he could no longer breathe. Shower first. Crisis later. (Much later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the godawful medical pick-up lines from [here](http://almost.thedoctorschannel.com/sexy-scholarship-winner-top-10-pick-up-lines-for-medical-students/) and [here](http://www.jokes4us.com/pickuplines/doctorpickuplines.html). :B Hoped you liked this and it wasn't too all over the place! Be on the lookout for the follow-up!


	15. After the Fall (Nothing Will Keep Us Apart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15: Fall.
> 
> In the aftermath of Moriarty's gift from beyond the grave, Sherlock and John sit down for a difficult conversation, one that has been a long time coming. (Continuation of "Brewed Awakening".)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much fretting, fussing, and deliberation, I present you with two sources of lyrical inspiration behind this chapter, both from Chelsea Wolfe's _Abyss_ album:
> 
> **Survive**   
> 
> 
> _Did we travel all this way, just to survive? Did you stay another day? We could survive..._
> 
> **After the Fall**   
> 
> 
> _Nothing will keep us apart. I said: nothing will keep us apart. I know that you'll find me there, after the fall._
> 
> ...That said, I feel as though most of this album could easily be representative of John's mental state after Sherlock's fall. I did some digging into the backstory of _Abyss_ , and Wolfe explained how she took inspiration from her experiences with sleep paralysis in her music.
> 
> In a similar vein, I'd like to think that John's time "After the Fall", so to speak, might have felt a lot like being caught up in a really bad dream, stuck between sleeping and wakefulness. And that's kind of where this piece comes from: a painful conversation about what happened after the fall, long after Sherlock's return, and how they sort of "wake up" and move on from Sherlock's deception and absence, and John's lingering distrust.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this continuation of "Brewed Awakening," and I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter, this album, whatever floats your boat!
> 
> xx Choice (Lyss)

Sherlock drifted out of the bathroom, aromatic steam trailing after him like the train of an ethereal wedding gown. He traded the moist and rosemary- and lemon-scented air for the sitting room beckoning him with the heady smells of chilli, garlic, peanuts, and (possibly) beef: John had ordered Thai for them, then. Sherlock felt his empty stomach growl in anticipation as he nestled into a corner of the couch, tucking his feet beneath himself.

John, in the midst of setting out their food, tilted his head up to shoot Sherlock a warm smile before going back to doling out portions of coconut jasmine rice.

“Thanks,” Sherlock murmured as John passed him his filled plate, using a throw pillow as a makeshift table on his lap. “Want the TV on?”

John took the seat beside him, passing the remote. “Whatever you’d like.” His voice was indulgent.

He flipped to a rerun of some ridiculous game show, and Sherlock hollered answers and deductions about the contestants alike at the screen between bites of food. John would snicker at some of his more outlandish deductions and pipe in with an answer or two.

Dinner was soon eaten, leftovers packaged away, and Sherlock was just preparing to change the channel to Chopped when John reached over and pulled the remote from his grasp, pointing it at the television and lowering the volume all the way down to faint background noise.

Sherlock spent a long moment simply gazing at John, picking him apart and reading his intentions in his bodily comportment. _Ah. We’re doing this now, then._ “Alright,” he muttered, sounding world-weary.

“We’ve put this off long enough, don’t you think?” John asked slightly tersely, turning so that he sat facing Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, looking off to the side.

“My feelings for you are not completely platonic.”

“I want to talk about what happened after the fall.”

They looked askance at one another, their simultaneously voiced confessions melding together and making the gaping maw of silence that followed that much more abrupt.

“You… what?” John breathed.

“Must we?” Sherlock barked. He rolled his eyes. “Can we stop this talking-over-one-another business? I have a headache already as it is.”

John gave him a look of concern. “Do you need paracetamol? I think there’s some in the kitchen cupboard still.”

Sherlock waved the offer away. “I’ll be fine. Side effect of Moriarty’s _gift_ , I’m certain.”

“You don’t think we need to talk about this?” John demanded.

“To which ‘this’ are you referring?” Sherlock asked dryly.

“Well, I mean…” John looked down and picked at the pills on the afghan he had draped over his lap. “Both. Though I wasn’t aware that you wanted to talk about those. Feelings, I mean. Considering.”

Sherlock snorted. “We’re two British men. Is there ever a better time to have a talk about how we _feel?_ ”

John shot him a rueful smile. “Fair point.”

They stared guardedly at one another for a long moment, to the brink of awkwardness.

“Well,” Sherlock said at long last. “That was a good talk.” He made to get up, only to have John insinuate himself onto his lap. Sherlock flailed but righted himself before they could both go toppling to the floor, his hand reflexively bracketing the other man’s hips.

“Hi,” he blurted out as he stared up at John, inwardly cursing as he felt the telltale warmth of a blush heating his face.

John’s grin was equal parts sheepish and delighted. “Salutations.”

“Any reason why you’re here when there’s a whole other half of the sofa to sit on?” he asked with a slight smile.

John’s cheeks reddened as well, but he remained resolute. “Shut up and let’s talk about whatever the hell needs airing out.”

He carefully nudged and pulled Sherlock about until they were both laying on the couch, Sherlock’s back facing the sitting room and John nestled between him and the sofa cushions.

“…” Sherlock took in their changed positions with a raised eyebrow. “What’s wrong with sitting like normal human beings?”

“Oh, since when have you ever claimed or wanted to be normal?” John scoffed. “Besides, we’re having a deep, meaningful, and serious conversation here, it calls for a change of scenery. Now.” He fussed with the blanket that now spanned both their bodies, forcing them into a cocoon. “Enough subterfuge and diversions, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Let’s have a chat.”

“I’m all ears, John Hamish Watson.”

John winced. “Your name sounds so much cooler,” he complained. “Damn family naming traditions.”

Sherlock grinned. “Who’s doing the diverting now?”

He received a glare for his troubles. “Nice try. Now do you want to pick a topic first?” Silence. “Right. I see your non-platonic feelings and raise with an ‘I’ve loved you since you taught me how to live again.’ The first time,” he amended quietly.

Sherlock felt himself repeatedly blinking, unable to process. “You mean…”

“Yes. Since that first night. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

Blink-blink-blink. “But you…”

“Go on.”

“Every time someone said anything, you said you weren’t gay,” Sherlock accused.

“I’m not. I’m bisexual, but more of a two… ish on the Kinsey scale,” John rushed. “And it always made you uncomfortable.”

“You married Mary.”

“I was moving on,” he said quietly. As he continued, his voice rose in pitch with barely reigned-in anger. “Or trying to, which you might’ve known, had we actually had a proper _talk_ about all of this instead of a rushed apology on an _explosive_ _train!_ ”

Their breathing mingled with the muted television, white noise.

“How many more times must I apologize to you,” Sherlock began, “Before you’ve truly forgiven me, John? Is it even a possibility, or will I forever be struggling to make amends?”

“I’ve forgiven you,” John returned defensively. “Like I told you earlier, I understand why you had to go, even if I didn’t like how you kept me in the dark all that time. To keep me safe,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “I know. But it doesn’t mean I have to like being lied to for so long.”

“I’d rather have you living and complaining about my methods than… the alternative.” He couldn’t even voice the possibility of a world without John, feeling as though he were tempting Fate merely _thinking_ about it. He shuddered.

John pressed their foreheads together, lips quirking in a facsimile of a smile when their eyes met up close. “I know,” he said softly. “Believe me, I know.”

Sherlock chanced bumping their noses together, chuckling under his breath when it garnered a more genuine expression of happiness from John. “Do you want me to talk about what… I went through, during those two years?” he asked haltingly.

John was gazing at him in earnest. “Only if you’d like, and even then, only what you feel comfortable with sharing.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, assuaged by vague recollections, swatches of time spent in Serbia, in Europe, Russia, the Americas, and more… Time marked by the passage of country borders, the punching of fists, the dripping of blood, sweat, and tears. “To be honest with you—“

“That’s all I ask,” John insisted, burrowing closer for warmth and comfort.

He blinked his eyes open again. “I don’t want to give these memories to you. Not for a lack of trust or desire, but because they don’t belong here between us. What you need to know is this: I have lied, I have stolen and killed; I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life and feared, more than once, that I would remain dead to you for good. But through it all, John Watson…” he breathed, raising a slightly unsteady hand to reverently graze the man’s clenched jaw. “I died for you, but I live for us, for this. Never doubt that.”

John turned to partially hide his face in the curvature of Sherlock’s palm, pressing a kiss there as his face screwed up as if in pain.

“I nearly didn’t make it,” John confessed, voice tight. “I couldn’t—it wasn’t until Mrs. Hudson gave me Diazepam about a week after— _after_ that I finally slept, and even then I didn’t rest. All I could hear… God!” he snarled as the first tears dripped down his cheeks, eyes still resolutely shut. “All I heard was that godawful crack when you…”

The low, keening noise that erupted from John’s clenched teeth nearly did Sherlock in. It felt like they were falling and breaking into pieces now, brittle and raw as they were. But this was… John _needed_ him, and if there was one thing Sherlock prided himself in, it was being there for his best (and only) friend.

“John. Look at me.” Sherlock followed up his request with a coaxing press of his hand against John’s face. “Open your eyes, and… there you go. Hello again,” he said gently.

“Hi,” John choked, voice small.

“Go on. I’m here, okay?” He carded his fingers through John’s hair, hoping it had the same soporific effect as it did for himself. “I’m here.”

“She didn’t know I don’t mix well with sleep aids, and I wasn’t… fully aware of what she was giving me at the time.”

“Mrs. Hudson slipped you drugs without your consent?” Sherlock asked, disbelievingly.

“No! No, nothing like that,” John wheezed out a laugh. “No… I just wasn’t… all there at that point. But once I was finally able to get myself awake from that nightmare that first night, I let her know. She’d come up to check on me—“

“All the way up to your room?”

“Yours,” John breathed, expression haunted, eyes wide and dripping tears. He was gazing straight through Sherlock now. “Insomnia can play tricks on the senses, and paired with the Diazepam… I swore I felt you grabbing me from behind, and it felt like we were both falling, never reaching the ground, just stuck in limbo and falling…” He swallowed. “And when I woke up all I could hear was your voice. Never clear words, just garbled muttering like white noise, like you were trying to tell me something important but I was just too stupid to understand.

“And there were so many moments where I wished for it to all stop, where I wondered if I was crazy or if you had somehow managed to transmit yourself through to me, if you were stuck or waiting for me. And one day I went to look for the Sig, to hold it like I used to, back in the bedsit, to just feel the weight of it in my hand and feel some semblance of control over _something_ in my life, but it was nowhere to be found.” His voice was wry.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked haltingly, through the lump in his throat.

“Your brother,” he corrected quietly.

His breathing stuttered and his eyes welled with tears.

“And sure, there were ways to work around the lack of a loaded gun, but I think that sort of stopped me in my tracks and made me realize that if I couldn’t live _with_ you, I’d live _for_ you. So I picked myself up and I got back to work, went—or, well, _tried_ to go to therapy, hung with Greg again, spent more time out. But I’d always come back home, only to realize, well, I’m never coming home again, am I? Not with you gone.

“And when I met Mary, I thought, well, maybe it was time. Maybe I could find home somewhere else. And it was… nice, with her. It felt like an echo of what we had, and I got caught up in that, got lost in the possibility of moving on, of forgetting the feeling of having somehow failed you. Then you came back, acting like it was nothing, being dead and gone for two long years only to miraculously be so brilliantly _alive_ , being away from everything you claimed to love and live for…”

John paused to simply stare at Sherlock, running his eyes up and down his body as if carving into his very flesh to gaze deep into his very bones, to see all of him without pretense. “It felt like our friendship meant so little to you, while I felt like I had dedicated my _everything_ to you from the moment we met. So maybe it was petty of me to not call things off with Mary, but—. You hurt me, and I wanted to retaliate, to show you I was just as unaffected by your absence as well.

“And that fucking speech of yours,” John laughed wetly, shaking his head and closing his eyes as if warding off the memory. “ _God._ If I ever felt like I’d went and made the biggest mistake of my life, that pretty much sealed the deal for me. Because of _course_ you cared, in your own way, and I was too blind to realize that, until it was too late.”

Sherlock kissed under one still-closed eye, nosing his temple and whispering: “And yet… here we are; it’s not too late.”

They spent a while in quietude, simply touching and reconnecting and coaxing composure back into one another while still remaining entrenched in this pivotal moment of theirs. Their legs gradually intertwined, a mirrored knee-between-thighs, and yet the atmosphere somehow maintained a respectful chastity.

“I always feel like we’re coexisting on borrowed time, like we’re just surviving until the other shoe drops.” John mused finally, staring down at the near-translucent careworn fabric of Sherlock’s sleep tee. Sherlock hummed at him in question, coaxing him along. “Even when you came back, when you said you were done and Moriarty’s network was put to bed, part of me still doubted you’d be here to stay. If death couldn’t seem to pin you down, how could I stand any chance?” he asked with a sardonic little smile and a brief upwards glance. “Then my shit wife shot you and the great Sherlock Holmes was mortal, after all.

“And I almost lost you _again_ ,” he growled. “But I already had, hadn’t I? We were growing apart at that point, and that bullet brought us back together again, ironically. It blasted through the façade of the life I thought needed, _deserved_.”

“But here. We. Are.”

“And then _Magnussen_.” The name was torn to shreds by John’s vocal chords, severed and choked. “And again, because we didn’t _talk_ and I never told you I wasn’t planning on going back to Mary, that I’d been working with Mycroft to put an end to her and that chapter of my life—!”

“And you almost lost me. _Almost_ , John. And do you know what I think?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet but steely; he didn’t wait for a response. “ _I_ think I’ve had enough ‘almosts’ to last me a lifetime, if not more. _I_ think it’s high time I put to rest the fact that we _almost_ succumbed to what everyone’s suspected us of being: together, in every sense of the word. What do you think?”

“I think…” John swallowed, their gazes growing heated as they stared one another down. “That’s the most brilliant thing you’ve ever said.” His lips did a slow curl into a wicked grin, and Sherlock was half-convinced if they pressed their lips together in a kiss right now, he would taste like ribbons of bracingly dark chocolate and heady red wine. Sherlock felt John’s breath puff over his mouth when he said: “Put it to bed, once and for all.”

‘Bed’ had his pulse skyrocketing, warped time so that it felt like he’d blinked and they’d somehow spirited themselves away and into the safety and promise of his bedroom. He watched John for any cues that the impending activities wouldn’t be welcome here in this room, but all he was met with was a tempered flame waiting to skyrocket out of control and a punched-out “Sher _lock…_ ”

He hissed out a breath. John was too far, these overwhelming emotions too close too fresh _too much_ after the Russian roulette of feelings earlier thanks to Mori- _fucking_ -arty and he’d be damned if he didn’t finally— _finally_ —set things to rights between them, right here and right this moment.

They unceremoniously corralled each other to the bed, kicking back the duvet covers and rolling into the centre without losing their connection. A brief tussle, and Sherlock found himself gazing down upon John’s perfectly wrecked countenance as they took a moment to simply breathe, bodies aligned and hearts palpitating.

And then Sherlock craned his head down ever so slowly, giving John ample room to move or stop him (though Sherlock felt as though he might shatter if that were to happen, overheated glass doused with cold water), and before his destination was reached, he breathed, with utmost sincerity, against parted lips: “ _Nothing will keep us apart._ ”

And then finally, _finally_ they were kissing, giving and taking everything that had been stolen from them over the years, by others and by one another. And the world didn’t end, fireworks didn’t explode; everything finally regained equilibrium.

And then clothes were being shed while the valleys and divots and gnarls of their world-worn bodies were explored like the written chronicles they were.

And then bodies were aligned in imperfect asymmetry, a Rorschach that couldn’t speak of anything aside from the ugly truth of desire, and it was wonderful, Sherlock thought, this slightly-uncomfortable-but-not-awkward dance. Grace and finesse took time, but this was the raw, unfinished product and Sherlock reveled in its inherent beauty.

“Nothing,” Sherlock panted, canting his hips forward and grunting at the matching stiff fount of heat he discovered there.

“God, _please_ , Sherlock!” John whimpered, wrapping his thicker, muscled arms and legs around Sherlock like a limpet, inadvertently causing Sherlock’s next thrust to graze the man’s bollocks and teasingly and superficially part through those gloriously tight arse cheeks.

They cried out in tandem and Sherlock had to make a brief retreat into his Mind Palace in order to regain control. _Find your center, find your center…_

“Hey,” John bit out with a forceful grind of his hips, reaching out one hand to clench Sherlock’s jaw. “ _No._ We’re here right now and I’ll be _damned_ if you leave me for even a moment. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, meeting steely shards of azure before they melted into something warmer. “Don’t go; we only just got here.”

“Yes, well, I’d like to make this last,” Sherlock hissed, bucking against John’s buttocks once more.

“It’s not over once it’s over.”

Sherlock shot him an amused smirk. “That made absolutely no sense at all,” he teased.

John’s eyes were serious. “There’s more to this than coming, is all I’m saying. If I have a say in how this pans out, we’re going to have this for the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock bracketed his arms around John’s head, leaning forward to give him a deep, reassuring kiss as they undulated against one another. “I concur,” he murmured between one kiss and the next.

Things grew more and more charged as they came closer to reaching the tipping of the scales from potential to actualized. Sherlock tore his mouth from John’s and breathed, sounding desperate, “I would very much appreciate the opportunity to be inside you, John. If you’re willing.”

“Oh, I’d say I’m fairly willing and _open_ ”—torturous roll of hips—“to persuasion, what do you think?”

At a loss for words, Sherlock merely moaned, pressing their foreheads together and taking a breath before reaching over into his nightstand drawer for the lubricant.

Slicked fingers carefully breached delightfully pert cheeks, ending with his index finger pressed against the twitching furl of John’s opening. “ _Please,_ ” John begged, grinding down against the digit until it finally slid inside that tight heat and _gods, this was happening._

“You are perfection,” Sherlock announced with fervor, starting shallow before pressing in further, alight with _need_ at how John’s body seemed to pull him all the way in with just a finger.

In quick succession, he had one, then two more fingers twisting and stretching John, unable to pass up the tempting opportunity to find that intimate bundle of nerves and— “ _Oh sweet fucking Christ Sherlock, if you don’t fuck me now—!_ ”  

“Condom?” Sherlock barked as he continued to tease at John’s prostate.

“’m clean,” he panted.

“Likewise.”

“Then what in the _bleeding, buggering hell_ are you waiting for?”

He reluctantly removed his fingers—more time to explore later, he reminded himself—before snatching up the lube.

“Let me?” John asked as he sat up and took the bottle from him, squirting out a generous dollop before reaching forward to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s length and stroke once, twice—

“ _John_ ,” he bit out, “Unless you want me to come the moment I’m inside of you, I suggest you stop that _right now_.”

“Or what?” he goaded, grinning up at Sherlock as he leaned back onto the pillows, grabbing behind his knees and spreading himself open.

“Oh, don’t tempt me, John Watson,” Sherlock warned in a dark baritone as he followed John’s lead and lined himself up against that loosened entrance, his eyes locked on John’s as he took a moment to just _breathe_ and come to terms with the gravitas of the moment.

And then he was pressing forth and inching inside of John with torturous care, deliberately unhurried and trying not to get lost in the sensations of _tighthotmore_ lest he move too fast and ruin things before they could properly culminate.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” John chanted, head thrown back and shaking back and forth, as if in disbelief.

“Flattering, but ’Sherlock’ will do just fine,” he reassured with forced humor.

John barked out a breathy laugh. “Git.”

“Yours,” he promised softly.

“ _Mine._ ”

A shallow thrust. “Mmh, _yes_.”

In seconds or hours—the passage of time was irrelevant—they were finally here, Sherlock so far lost in John that his groin was pressed against the other man’s bollocks, heady yet somehow comforting. They stayed like that for a second, reveling, before John delivered a swift, playful kick to Sherlock’s bum and set him into motion.

It wasn’t fated to last long, that much was a given, but Sherlock would be _damned_ if he didn’t get to feel John clench around him and see the man lose control before Sherlock chased the apex of his own pleasure. He set to work finding the perfect angle to stimulate John’s prostate as he wrapped one fist around John’s dripping cock.

John had been moaning to start with, but at the first bump of the head of Sherlock’s dick deep inside of him, right against that beautiful marvel of male anatomy, he began keening in earnest, begging-demanding-threatening Sherlock for more until, at last, he began shuddering and crying out and _squeezing_ around Sherlock.

Greedily taking in the sight, Sherlock began pounding into John relentlessly, leaning forward to press one of John’s legs up against his chest for a change in angle that had him seeing _stars_.

Two more thrusts, and then Sherlock quickly pulled himself out to finish all over John’s chest, their come mixing together against tanned skin.

He carefully flopped himself to the side, pressed against John as they fought to catch their breath and come down from their shared high.

“That… was _brilliant._ ” John announced sometime later, eyes still closed.

“Mmm.”

He cracked one eye open to stare at Sherlock in undisguised amusement. “Alright there?”

Before Sherlock could toss a pillow at him in retaliation or come up with something witty, a mobile chimed from somewhere within the flat. He knew that tone—Lestrade. But _ugh_ , he’d never felt more compelled to ignore the siren’s call of a crime scene.

“Sherlock—“

‘I know.”

A pause. “But your phone…”

“Yes.”

He felt John turn towards him. “It’s Greg—“

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock moaned, grumbling as he rolled over into his pillow before getting up with a sigh. “If there were ever a time when I wasn’t thankful for London’s would-be criminals…”

“Noted,” John teased, folding his arms behind his head.

* * *

It turned out to be a rather cut-and-dry homicide.

Literally. The poor sod had had his tongue severed from his mouth postmortem and partially charred before being shoved into the man’s clenched fist.

“Jilted lover,” Sherlock declared with relish, the lethargy of earlier giving way to the thrill of a crime scene. “Someone who had shared access to the victim’s commercial kitchen. A _male_ someone, judging by the clean cut. Cause of death, John?” he asked from his crouched position alongside the body, shooting him a warm glance.

John smiled down at him in return, carefully kneeling down for an inspection. “Asphyxiation, choked on his own blood, from the looks of it. Dead about… seven hours.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. They got up, John struggling with a wince until Sherlock helped up along with a smirk.

“Feeling alright there, mate?” The D.I. asked with a lecherous grin at the pair of them, folding his arms across his chest. He snickered at the flush on John’s face. “Well, it’s about time!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shot the Inspector a calculating glance, eyes flashing over the man before asking, “Do tell me, how _is_ my dear brother faring after his trip to Mumbai? He probably landed… what, three hours ago? More than enough time to…” Sherlock smirked. “ _Catch up._ ”

John looked from Greg, who was now clenching his jaw so tight the tendons were visible, to Sherlock looking like the cat who got the canary. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” he asked slowly, unsure if he actually wanted a conclusive answer. “You don’t think…”

Sherlock raised a brow at John. “You don’t believe me?” he asked dryly. “Just look at Lestrade’s attire, and his stubble—or, rather, lack thereof.”

John did a double- and triple-take at the man in question, taking in the bespoke and rather expensive-looking clothes that, John had to admit, really complemented the distinguished silver of Greg’s hair and his sharp eyes, and judging by the smooth and moisturized planes of his cheeks, he’d recently taken up a decent-quality manual razor and shaving kit.

“Oh,” John breathed, a grin slowly beginning to appear on his face. “About time, indeed! Congrats, _Greg_ , you git,” he chortled.

The Detective Inspector gave him a sheepish grin in return, scratching the nape of his neck in embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Well thanks for coming out, gents. Didn’t mean to _interrupt_.”

“Oh, no worries,” John said breezily. “Plenty of time to… pick things back up,” he assured, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as Sherlock rapidly blinked at him, taken aback.

Greg snorted. “I’d ask you what’s gotten into you, but… well. Have fun, kids—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“We will,” they chorused, snickering amongst themselves as they linked hands and went to hail a cab.

If he had half a mind to do so, Sherlock might've fancied that they had Jim to partially thank for getting them to this point in their lives. As it were, however, all Sherlock could think as they made their way back home to Baker Street was that John's profile looked like a fever dream in the lights of the city passing by, caught in snatches of clarity before returning to black, and that if this were all a dream, he hoped to remain caught up in this figment of his imagination for all time.  


	16. Sage Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16: Hidden Talent.
> 
> John Watson never fails to astound even the world's only consulting detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a light little piece after the heaviness of the previous chapters. :) Apologies for the delay; I hope you enjoy!
> 
> xx Choice (Lyss)

Sherlock was of the mentality that very little in this world could manage to pull the wool over his eyes; he looked, he deduced, and he knew: that was how he interacted with the people, places, and things surrounding him. Sure, there were the odd moments where a deduction didn’t pan out completely right, but there’s always something to slip him up ever so slightly.

Regardless of his momentary lapses, Sherlock had been fairly sure about one thing, after having known John Watson for quite a while now: he could never manage to learn all that there was to this brilliant, incomparable man he called “best friend”. There would always be something novel to discover, some new mystery to pick apart and understand.

* * *

He’d spent the better part of the day out on a survey of London's emergent bee population, a day of leisure in his books. It was long past dusk by the time he decided to pack up and begin the twenty-odd-minute trek back home. He decided to surprise John with some of his favorite Chinese from the takeaway they usually frequented that didn’t deliver, even if it meant making a bit of a diversion in his home-bound route.

Sherlock jolted to a halt in the doorjamb, nearly dropping the plastic sack containing their dinner down the stairs in his surprise.

John froze like a deer in headlights, gawking at Sherlock and elbows-deep in… a shoe box full of yarn?

Sherlock squinted his eyes and gave him a closer look, reading the balls of yarn (bulky, wool, sage green), the metal implements (knitting needles), and vague aspects of John’s countenance (poor night’s sleep, trying shift at the clinic, out of milk, faint shoulder ache, hungry and lonesome) before coming to the conclusion:

“…You knit.” Even still, his voice lilted towards the end like it was a question, rather than an observation.

John opened his mouth, looking ready to deny Sherlock’s deduction, before pausing and looking down at himself and the incriminating evidence. “Only sometimes,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“Female relative or army mate?” he asked, walking further into the sitting room to set the takeaway bag on the desk.

“Sorry, what?” John sniped, even as he perked up in interest at the sight and smell of dinner.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, slipping out of his shoes and into a pair of house slippers to keep his stockinged feet warm. It was beginning to get nippy out but they were reluctant to start up the ancient radiators in the flat until it was unbearably freezing.

“Who taught you how to knit: a female relative or an army mate?”

“Oh,” John said sheepishly. “Neither, actually.”

A beat passed. “Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently. “Who?”

John flashed him a grin. “My father.”

Sherlock blinked a total of ten times in quick succession at that. “…Huh. Why?”

“Because Watsons are self-sufficient creatures,” John recited, shaking his head fondly promptly thereafter. “And it’s a proven fact that we enjoy the simple comforts like good tea, knit sweaters and things, so.” He held up a half-finished project (sweater) and shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Definitely kills time when one’s bored, and saves you money on expensive cable-knits.”

“So you’re telling me that you make your own jumpers.” Sherlock felt unaccountably sheepish all of a sudden, because how often did he make some barbed remark about John’s garish jumper habit?

“Nah,” John shook his head, much to Sherlock’s relief. “The ones you’ve seen me in, like that oatmeal-colored one you always particularly enjoy making fun of—my father’s, for the most part.” He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s wince.

“Sentiment?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sentiment,” John agreed. “Oh, you got us dinner. Excellent. Let me just—“

“Would you show me?” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. John looked at him askance. “…How to, you know.” He waves his hand at John’s project.

A slow grin spread over John’s face, shaking his head. “The great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to domesticity. Will wonders never cease!”

Sherlock shot him a glare, and considered rescinding his request when John went on, in a softer voice full of warmth:

“Of course I’ll teach you. But no using the knitting needles for anything besides their expressly intended use—to knit!”

“Pfft, no fun,” Sherlock scoffed, grinning as he pulled out their food (while trying not to be so painfully obvious about how much he admired John’s profile cast in the firelight, sage green knitting draped over his lap).

There was always something new to learn about John Watson.


	17. Winging It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17: Makeup.
> 
> Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion... experiments. John must soldier on as though he is not having an internal existential crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this I don't even. Enjoy(?)!
> 
> xx Choice (Lyss)

“Sherlock, I need to get in there at _some_ point today, _please_.” John barked through the locked bathroom door for the nth time that morning.

Having gone through asking nicely to threatening to pounding the door hard enough to put Scotland Yard to shame to finally pleading and attempting to bribe the man out—the stages of living with Sherlock, really—John was jaded and ready to accept the simple fact that he might actually have to ask to use Mrs. Hudson’s bath.

“Perfection takes time, John,” Sherlock replied breezily, the first words he’d spoken since… what was it, two days of Sherlock’s slightly-uncommon-but-not-rare mute act? John perked up, feeling hesitantly hopeful that he might see the bathroom sometime today.

Sure enough, the door clicked open and Sherlock was in his personal space and—

“What the…!” John stumbled backwards like he’d been doused with a bucketful of steaming entrails, gaping at Sherlock as if he were the Ghost of Christmas Past. “Sherlock, you… you’re… w-what are you—“

“Oh, for god’s sake, John,” Sherlock sneered. “ _Do_ learn how to properly form syllables before attempting speech, or at least control the flapping of your jaw. You might put me off of my breakfast.”

“You hardly ever even eat breakfast,” John retorted on autopilot.

“Whatever.”

“Sherlock…” John gulped, not knowing where to look; he settled for some point on the wall behind Sherlock’s right ear. “What are you wearing. And why.”

“Makeup, of course.” Sherlock looked slightly puzzled.

“Of course,” John scoffed. After a bit of a pause without further explanation forthcoming, John continued his line of inquiry: “ _Why,_ Sherlock? Why are you wearing makeup though?”

“Experiment,” the infuriating man shrugged. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and gods, why did he have to have lips that were so naturally… distracting? As it was, painted a deep brick red vaguely reminiscent of coagulating blood, John couldn’t risk glancing at them for longer than a millisecond, lest he become utterly ensnared with their wicked curvature.

And _those eyes._ Admittedly rather dazzling on their own, framed by the crisp, exacting eyeliner, Sherlock’s typically slightly slanted, disquieting almond-shaped eyes looked half-lidded and sultry, giving him an even more _come hither_ air than ever before.

Even with his decidedly thick, masculine eyebrows and the harsh angles that comprised his face, Sherlock looked a sight better than some (alright, the majority) of the women he’d dated. Their eye makeup was never so precise, deliberate, and sharp like _that_.

“Sharp enough to cut a man,” Sherlock commented at long last, reading John like the morning, as per usual. “At least, that’s what one YouTube video insisted upon in regards to the execution of winged eyeliner.”

“Is that right,” John breathed, shaking his head.

"Are you alright John, your saliva production seems to have increased along with your breathing rate." Sherlock observed innocently, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He blinked at him in curiosity and—good God, was the man wearing false eyelashes or were they always so full and dramatic like that?

“Not enough caffeine in the _world_ for this," he muttered under his breath before shouldering past Sherlock to finally insinuate himself into the bathroom. He shut and locked the door with military precision, ignoring Sherlock’s irritated nattering from the other side as he turned the shower on.

And if he spent a little bit longer than usual in the shower that morning, it was no one’s business but his own, goddammit. (All deductions to yourself, please and thanks, Sherlock.)


	18. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18: Holding Hands.
> 
> An experiment gone awry leads to John discovering something rather unexpected about Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you can look at this as more pre-slash than anything, or a platonic!Johnlock, but I couldn't help myself once the idea popped into my head. I hope you like it! ♥
> 
> Also--apologies for falling behind; I'm working on it and have absolutely no intentions of backing out of this challenge! ;)
> 
> xx Lyss

It wasn’t unusual for experiments to go awry in their cosy little flat, for some collateral damage to be exacted in the name of _science._ So when an explosion of glass and curses (not from the same sources, mind) resounded from the kitchen one afternoon, John merely sighed and folded up his Sunday paper, tossing it to the side table as he got up to assess the damage.

“All right in here?” John called as he walked into the kitchen. “Any broken bones, acid burns, scrapes?”

“Never better,” Sherlock drawled, holding a broken pipette away from him and analyzing the wet-looking skin of his hand with vague interest. “A little tingly, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”

“ _Please_ tell me it’s nothing toxic.” John rushed forward, running a shrewd eye over the floor for any wayward bits of glass or unidentifiable substances.

“In theory.”

“Excellent.” John rolled his eyes. He finally made it over to Sherlock, reaching out for the man’s outstretched hand. “Now carefully set that down, and—“

“John…” Sherlock interrupted slowly, voice gone quiet with trepidation. “I really would _not_ have done that, if I were you.”

“What do you… oh, _fucking hell._ ” John lifted up his hand, which he’d pressed against the back of Sherlock’s, only for both of their fused-together hands to rise in tandem. “Well.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s lips were curled in annoyance, glaring at their hands with such single-minded, heated intensity John was surprised his skin hadn’t begun to disintegrate.

“Well,” John reiterated. “We’re caught in a bit of a sticky situation now, aren’t we?”

Sherlock met John’s gaze with an unholy glare. They languished in tense silence for a few beats, before devolving into giggles.

“You’re horrid,” Sherlock snorted. “That was absolutely, fantastically deplorable.”

“Well I think we’re at a bit of a sticking point there, because I think it was absolutely, fantastically clever.” John was grinning like a loon, he could feel it, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“Shut up!” Sherlock snorted. They laughed a bit more before sobering up a bit. “Alright, in all seriousness, I’d say that I am approximately two and a half minutes—give or take a few seconds—from having a fit. Please say you know what to do to get us… unstuck.”

John furrowed his brow. “What, meaning you’re going to turn into a banshee and yammer and holler my ear off?”

“No, John,” Sherlock said, completely calm. “Meaning that I have a bit of an… aversion to physical contact.” A pause. “I don’t like being subjected to touch, much. At all, if I can help it.”

John was trying not to openly gape at his friend, but he knew he was meeting the challenge with very little success.

“John,” Sherlock urged, voice gone a bit reedy. He was developing a bit of a waxy pallor as well, his face glistening with the beginnings of a nervous sweat. “Disentangle us _at once._ ”

“Alright, alright,” John placated, shelving his shock for a later time. “We might be able to get free with some rubbing alcohol, it should be under the sink. Come on then.”

* * *

In the end, it took them a half-hour and four different failed attempts before Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen and took pity upon them, dragging a terse John and near-hyperventilating Sherlock down into her kitchen where she kept a bottle of adhesive remover.

“From my time in the States,” she confided, nattering on about how the late Mr. Hudson had introduced her to the stuff, sold in the U.S., which somehow led to a one-sided conversation about cleaning shows and the multiple uses of bicarb soda.

She didn’t do a double-take at Sherlock’s fidgeting, nor his uneven breathing.

The moment they were finally freed, Sherlock bolted back upstairs without another word.

John watched him go rather helplessly, before turning to offer Mrs. Hudson an apologetic frown. “Sorry about him. Thank you for helping us out, you’re a right godsend.” He kissed her forehead and gave her a gentle one-armed hug.

She waved his gratitude off with a smile. “Oh, it’s no bother at all. We all have to look out for each other, I’m just happy to help. I know how he doesn’t like… you know,” she gesticulated with her arms. “But I think you both handled it admirably. He was a lot more composed than I would’ve thought, if you two had really been stuck together for that long.”

“So you know, then. About… _that_.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, expression troubled. “Yes, I do.” She didn’t offer to elaborate.

After a beat, John nodded. “Right, better go up and check on him. Thanks again, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Don’t mention it, dear.” Mrs. Hudson bid him a goodnight as he ascended the stairs to their rooms.

He entered the quiet sitting room with no Sherlock to be found. The kitchen and bathroom were similarly devoid of the maddening genius. A glance over at Sherlock’s closed (and most likely locked) bedroom door down the hall revealed a thin strip of light coming from underneath.

Well, he was still here, at least.

With a resigned sigh, John carefully set the kitchen back to rights, sweeping up glass and binning the cutlery that had managed to get caught in the sticky crossfire of Sherlock’s experiment before deciding upon takeaway for dinner.

He pulled out his mobile to send the other man a text: _Hungry? Ordering dinner._

John hesitated, mulling over the multitude of other things he wanted to say before opting to keep things simple. He pressed ‘Send’, only to curse when, a moment later, a _ping_ of a text alert came from Sherlock’s armchair. Probably wedged in between the cushions again.

Chinese seemed like a safe option. He quickly dialed in with their usual order, confirming the time it would be ready for pickup. He had enough time for a quick shower, so John quickly and efficiently cleaned up before picking up his shoes and sitting down on the sofa to slip them on.

In the middle of doing up the laces on his right foot, Sherlock’s bedroom door creaked open. John didn’t know how, but Sherlock somehow managed to make the noise sound hesitant.

“I’m picking up dinner for us,” John offered to the open air. “You’re welcome to come with me to get it.”

Silence. John reigned in a sigh.

“I’ll be back in a little bit. And don’t think you’re going to weasel your way out of eating,” he warned, unable to resist wagging a finger in Sherlock’s general direction, regardless of how ridiculous he probably looked. “I know you haven’t eaten since dinner two nights ago.”

A quiet, snide voice: “Yes, doctor.”

John cracked a grin. “There you are,” he breathed, voice low. Raising his voice, he repeated, “Be back in a bit.”

* * *

On the walk home from their usual Chinese place, John thought about what had transpired between him and Sherlock, about the novelty of the discovery he’d inadvertently made today. For the nth time since he’d met Sherlock, he wondered if there were some underlying pathological issue to blame, perhaps previous trauma, mild Asperger’s, or even schizoid disorder, before quickly dismissing these diagnoses. Perhaps this was just who Sherlock was, brilliantly unique and defying all expectations and conventions.

As he approached their doorstep, he decided to not bring anything up, to let Sherlock be. He’d gone this long not knowing about his friend’s apparent aversion to physical touch; if Sherlock didn’t want to get into this with John, well, that was a boundary to be respected.

He paused in the foyer to take off his coat before going upstairs to their flat, shouldering the ajar door open. “Food’s in!” he announced—rather unnecessarily, it turned out, as Sherlock had been sprawled out on the sofa watching telly when he came in.

“Chopped is on,” Sherlock inserted, his eyes glancing over John and reading his body, as he was wont to do, before locking back onto the TV screen.

“Rerun?” John asked as he unpacked the takeaway bags.

“Mmmno,” Sherlock hummed, reaching over to take a proffered white box of chow mein before John could set it on the table in front of him. Their fingers brushed against one another—rather purposefully, it seemed, if Sherlock’s convulsive swallow and determined expression were anything to go by. “Ted Allen’s wearing rather complimentary shades of aubergine and lilac with his grey suit, I must say.”

John snorted, looking over at the screen. “You’ve been holding a torch for him ever since we got into Queer Eye.”

“Have not.” He rolled his eyes, even as his cheeks turned a faint pink. “I simply appreciate the effort with which he dresses himself.”

“Uh huh,” John responded with a faint grin, not dissuaded in the least. “Budge up, there’s room for more than your lanky arse on that couch.”

They spent the majority of dinner watching the sensationalized show, shouting at the screen and coming up with their own outlandish basket combinations. It wasn’t until the second commercial break that Sherlock carefully knocked their knees together with a quiet “Thanks for not prying.”

John gave him a gentle nudge back, his voice suffused with warmth and love. “Don’t mention it.”

They finished out the evening with Ted Allen, Food Network, and a closeness that wasn’t dictated by the distance between their bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand there you have it! I'd love to know what you thought--feel free to leave a comment, kudos, what-have-you. :) ♥


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